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I'UKSKNTKI) BY 



THE 

POEMS 

OF 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



THE 



POEMS 



SAMUEL TAYLOR, COLERIDGE ; 



WITH AN 

NTRODUCTORY ESSAY ON HIS LIFE AND 
WHITINGS. 



NEW YORK: 

C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 2 52 BROADWAY. 

boston: 

J. H.FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1848. 






E.NTEiiKD, according to Act of Congress, iu the year 18-18, 

BY C. S. FRANCiy & CO. 

Ill tlie Clerk's Office of the Di-trict Cc irf for the Southern District 
of New York. 



Olll. 

W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



Printed by 

MUNROE AND FRANCIS, 

Boston. 



CONTENTS 



Introductory Essay 
Preface - - - 



JuvENJLE Poems. 

Genevieve -13 

Sonnet To the Autumnal Moon - ... * 13 

Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital ... 14 

Time, Real and Imaginary -IS 

Monody on the death of Chatterton 16 

Songs of the Pixies 21 

The Raven 26 

Absence. A Farewell Ode .27 

Sonnet. On the same ........ 28 

To the Muse 29 

With Fielding's Amelia 29 

On hearing that his only Sister's death was inevitable - 30 

On seeing a Youth welcomed by a Sister - . - . 30 

Pain .31 

Lines on an Autumnal Evening 31 

The Rose 35 

The Kiss 36 

Kisses 37 

To the Nightingale 37 

To a Young Ass 38 

To Charles Lamb 39 

Domestic Peace 41 

The Sigh 41 

Epitaph on an Infant ........ 42 

Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross .... 42 

Epigram --. ...43 

Lines to a beautiful Spring in a Village .... 43 

Lines on a Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever - - 45 

To a Young Lady, with a Poem on the French Revolution 46 

Sonnet I. " My heart has thanked thee, Bowles !" - - 48 

— — II. "As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale '' - 49 

• TIL "Though roused by that dark Vizier Riot rude" 50 

IV. "When British Freedom for a happier land" 50 

- V. "It was some Spirit, Sheridan I" - . . 50 
VI. " O what a loud and fearful shriek " - *«• 51 

VII. "As when far off " - 

VIII. "Thou gentle look" 

IX. " Pale Reamer through the night !" - - 53 

X. " Sweet Mercy !" 53 

XI. " Thou bleedest, my poor Heart !" - - - 54 

XII. To the Author of the "Robbers" - - - 64 

55 



Lines composed while climbing Brockley Coomb 



J-,0' 



VI CONTENTS. 

JuvKNiLE Poems. page 

Lines in the manner of Spencer ----- • 56 
Imitated from Ossian ...---.-57 

The .Complaint of Ninathoma .---.- 58 

Casimir ad Lyrani - - - 59 

Imitated from the Welsh 60 

Uarwiniana -----.--•-61 

To an Infant 61 

On the Christening of a Friend's ("hild • - - - 62 

Lines written at Shiirton Bars, near Bridgewater - • 64 

Lines to a Friend, in answer to a Melancholy Letter - 67 

Keligious Musings -68 

The Destiny of Nations, a Vision ----- 83 

Sibylline Leaves. 

Ode to the Departing Year 101 

France: an Ode 108 

Fears in Solitude 112 

Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 113 

Love 122 

itroduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie - - - 126 

:'he Ballad of the Dark Ladie. A Fragment - - - 127 

Lewti, or the Circasssian Love-channt .... 129 

The Picture; or the Lover's Resolution . - - . 132 

The Night Scene. A Dramatic Fragment .... 138 

To an Unfortunate Woman ---..-- 141 

To an Uufortunate Woman at the Theatre ... J42 

Lines composed in a Concert Room 143 

The Keepsake 144 

To a Lady, with Falconer's Shipwreck .... 146 

To a Young Lady on her Recovery from a Fever - - 147 

Something Childish, but very Natural . - - - 143 

Home-sick -- 148 

Answer to a Child's Question 149 

A Child's Evening Prayer 149 

The Visiouary Hope - 150 

The Happy Husband 151 

Recollections of Love -...---- 152 

On Revisiting the Sea-shore 153 

The Exchange - 154 

Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni - - 155 

Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode - - - 158 

On observing a Blossom in February • - - - - 160 

The iEolian Harp 161 

Reflections on having left a place of Retirement - - 163 

To the Rev. George Coleridge --..-. 165 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath . - - • 168 

A Tombless Epitaph 169 

This Lime-tree Bower my Prison ... - - 170 

To a Friend - - - - 173 

To William Wordsworth 175 

The Nightingale. A Conversation Poem ... - 179 

Frost at Midnight 183 

4 he Three Graves ..-..-.- 185 

Ejection. An Ode 199 

Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire - - - - 204 

Ode to Tranquillity - - 207 

To a Young Friend - - 208 

Lines to W. L. - 210 

Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune - - - - 211 

Sonnet. To the River Otter 212 

On the Birth of a Son - - 212 



CONTENTS. VH 

Sibylline Leaves. page 

Sonnet to a Friend 213 

The Virgin's Cradle Hymn - - 214 

Epitaph on an Infant - - • 214 

Melancholy. A Fragment -•..--. 215 

Tell's Birth Place 215 

A Christmas Carol 217 

Human Life 219 

Moles 220 

The Visit of the Gods 220 

Elegy, imitated from Akenside 221 

Separation .......... 2-!2 

On taking Leave of ....... 223 

The Pang more sharp than all - - • - - - 223 

Kubla Khan - - 226 

The Pains of Sleep 229 

What is Life 330 

Limbo 231 

Ne plus ultra 232 

The Ancient Mariner - . 233 

Chkistabel 257 

Miscellaneous Poems. 

_41ice du Clos ; or, the Forked Tongue. A Ballad - 2S0 

The Knighfs Tomb 287 

^Bymn to the Earth 287 

Written during a temporary Blindness, 1799 . - . 289 

Mahomet 290 

Catullian Hendecasyllables 291 

Duty surviving Self Love • - - « - - .291 

Phantom or Fact? A Dialogue in Verse .... 292 

Phantom .......... 293 

Work without Hope 293 

Youth and Age 294 

A Day Dream 295 

First Advent of Love - 297 

Names 297 

Desire 298 

Love and Friendship opposite 298 

Not at Home - - 298 

To a Lady, offended by a sportive observation - - - 299 

" I have heard of reasons manifold " 299 

An Invocation. From " Kemorse "..... 299 

Song. From " Zapolya " 300 

Choral Song From "Zapolya" 301 

Song of Thekla 301 

Lines suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius ■ 302 
Sancti Dominici Pallium - - - ■ . . -303 

The Devil's Thoughts 306 

An Ode to the Rain 310 

Lines to a Comic Author . 312 

Constancy to an Ideal Object 313 

The Suicide's Argument -..,... 314 

The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-Tree - - - 315 

From the German 318 

Fancy in Nubibus - - 318 

The Two Founts 319 

The Wanderings of Cain 321 

Allegoric Vision 329 

The Improvisatore • - 336 

The Garde'n of Boccaccio . 344 

On a Cataract .348 



CONTENTS. 



Miscellaneous Poems page 

Love's Apparition and Evanisliment ..... 349 

Morning Invitation to a Child 350 

Consolation to a Maniac .-....- 351 

A Character 353 

The Reproof and Reply 356 

Cologne 358 

On my joyful Departure from the same City - - - 3o9 

Written in an Album - 359 

To the Autlior of the Ancient Mariner - - - - 359 

Metrical Feet. Lesson for a Boy 360 

Translation from Schiller 361 

I. The Homeric Hexameter described and exemplified 361 

II. The Ovidian Elegiac Metre described and exemplified 361 

To the Young Artist, Kayser of Kayserworih - - - 361 

Job's Luck ----- . - - . - 362 

On a Volunteer Singer - - 362 

On an Insignificant 362 

Profuse Kindness 363 

Charity in Thought 363 

Humility the Mother of Charity 363 

On an Infant which died before Baptism - . - - 363 

On Berkeley and Florence Coleridge 364 

Psyche _ 364 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education .... 365 

'' VvojOi aeavTOv V &c. - - • - - -*-• 356 

'■ Gently I took," &c. 366 

Complaint 367 

Inscription for a Time- Piece 3B8 

My Baptismal Birth-Day 368 

'E-mTapiop avToypairrov ------- 368 

Epitaph -^69 

Apologetic Preface to "Fire, Famine, and Slaughter" - 370 

Notes - - 383 



ESSAY 

ON THE 

LIFE AND WRITINGS OF COLERIDGE, 

BY H. T. TUCEERMAN.* 



Coleridge appears to have excelled all his contempo- 
raries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest 
talent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthu- 
siastic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation 
afforded. The fancy is captivated by the mere descrip- 
tion of his fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired 
language. We are haunted with these vivid pictures 
of the " old man eloquent," as by those of the sages of 
antiquity, and the renowned improvisatores of modern 
times. Hazlitt and Lamb seem never weary of the 
theme. They make us reahze, as far as description 
can, the affectionate temper, the simple bearing, and 
earnest intelligence of their friend. We feel the might 
and interest of a living soul, and sigh that it was not our 
lot to partake directly of its overflowing gifts. 

Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, un- 
fortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and 
read far more than to write. Hence the records of his 
mind bear no propoition to its endowments and activity. 
Ill health early drew him from " life in motion, to life 

* Taken, by permission of the Author, from " Thoughts on the 
Poets." 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

in thought and sensation." Necessity drove him to 
literary labor. He was too unambitious, and found too 
much enjoyment in the spontaneous exercise of his 
mind, to assume willingly the toils of authorship. His 
mental tastes were not of a popular cast. In boyhood 
he " waxed not pale at philosophic draughts," and there 
was in his soul an aspiration after Iruth — an interest in 
the deep things of life — a " hungering for eternity," 
essential!}' opposed to success as a miscellaneous writer. 
One of the most irrational complaints against Coleridge, 
was his dislike of the French. Never was there a more 
honest prejudice. In literature, he deemed that nation 
responsible for having introduced the artificial school of 
poetry, which he detested ; in politics, their inhuman 
atrocities, during the revolution, blighted his dearest 
theory of man; in life, their frivolity could not but 
awaken disgust in a mind so serious, and a heart so ten- 
der, where faith and love were cherished in the very 
depths of reflection and sensibility. It is indeed easy to 
discover in his works ample confirmation of the testi- 
mony of his friends, but they afford but au unfinished 
monument to his genius. We must be content with the 
few memorials he has left of a powerful imagination and 
a good heart. Of these his poems furnish the most 
beautiful. They are the sweetest echo of his marvel- 
lous spirit : — 

A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts, 
To their own music chaunted. 

The eye of the Ancient Mariner holds us, in its wild 
spell, as it did the wedding-guest, while we feel the 
truth that 

He pra3'eth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

The charm of regretful tenderness is upon us with as 
Bweet a mystery, as the beauty of " the lady of a far 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XI 

countrie," when we read these among other musical 
lines of Christabel : 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth •, 
And whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain, 
And to be wroth with one ice love, 
Doth work like inacbiess in the hrain. 

" No man was ever yet a great poet, without being 
at the same time a profound philosopher." True as 
this may be in one sense, we hold it an unfortunate rule 
for a poetical mind to act upon. It was part of the creed 
of Coleridge, and his works illustrate its unfavorable in- 
fluence. His prose, generally speaking, is truly satis- 
factory only when it is poetical. The human mind is so 
constituted as to desire completeness. The desultory 
character of Coleridge's prose writings is often weari- 
some and disturbing. He does not carry us on to a 
given point by a regular road, but is ever wandering 
from the end proposed. We are provoked at this way- 
wardness the more, because, ever and anon, we catch 
glimpses of beautiful localities, and look down most in- 
viting vistas. At these promising fields of thought, and 
vestibules of truth, we are only permitted to glance, and 
then are unceremoniously hurried off in the direction 
that happens to please our guide's vagrant humor. This 
desultory style essentially mars the interest of nearty all 
the prose of this distinguished man. Not only the com- 
positions, but the opinions, habits, and experience of 
Coleridge, partake of the same erratic character. His 
classical studies at Christ's hospital were interwoven 
with the reading of a circulating library. He proposed 
to become a shoemaker while he was studying medicine. 
He excited the wonder of every casual acquaintance by 
his schoolboy discourse, while he provoked his masters 
by starting an argument instead of repeating a rule. 
He incurred a chronic rheumatism by swimming with 
his clothes on, and left the sick ward to enlist in a regi- 
ment of dragoons. Hp laid mngnificent plans of | rimi-r 



Xll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

tive felicity to be realized on the banks of the Susque- 
hanna, while he wandered penniless in the streets of 
London. He was at different times a zealous Unitarian, 
and a high Churchman — a political lecturer — a metaphy- 
sical essayist — a preacher — a translator — a traveller — a 
foreign secretary — a philosopher — an editor — a poet. 
We cannot wonder that his productions, particularly 
those that profess to be elaborate, should, in a measure, 
partake of the variableness of his mood. His works, 
like his life, are fragmentary. He is, too, frequently 
prolix, labors upon topics of secondary interest, and ex- 
cites only to disappoint expectation. By many sensible 
readers his metaphysical views are pronounced unintel- 
ligible, and by some German scholars declared arrant 
plagiarisms. These considerations are the more painful 
from our sense of the superiority of the man He pro- 
poses to awaken thought, to address and call forth the 
higher faculties, and to vindicate the claims of important 
truth. Such designs claim respect. We honor the 
author who conscientiously entertains them. We seat 
ourselves reverently at the feet of a teacher whose aim 
is so exalted. We listen with curiosity and hope. 
Musical are many of the periods, beautiful the images, 
and here and there comes a single idea of striking value ; 
but for these we are obliged to hear many discursive ex- 
ordiums, irrelevant episodes, and random speculations. 
We are constantly reminded of Charles Lamb's reply 
to the poet's inquiry if he had ever heard him preach — 
"I never knew you do anything else," said Elia. It is 
highly desirable that the prose-writings of Coleridge 
should be thoroughly winnowed. A volume of delight- 
ful aphorisms might thus be easily gleaned. Long after 
we have forgotten the general train of his observations, 
isolated remarks, full of meaning and truth, hnger in our 
memories. Scattered through his works are many say- 
ings, referring to literature and human nature, which 
would serve as maxims in philosophy and criticism. 
Their effect is often lost from the position they occupy, 



I N T R O D U' C TO R Y ESSAY. XV 

Mid the wild rack and rain that slant below 
Stands — 

As though the spirits of all lovely Jtov^ers 
Inweaving each its uneath and dewy crown, 
And ere they sujik to earth in vernal showers, 
Hud built a. bridge to tempt the angels down. 

Remorse is as the heart in which it grotvs : 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy, 
It is a poison-tree, that, pierced to the inmost. 
Weeps only tears of poison. 

The more elaborate poetical compositions of Coleridge 
display much talent and a rare command of language. 
His dramatic attempts, however, are decidedly inferior 
in interest and power to many of his fugitive pieces. 
Wallenstein, indeed, is allowed to be a master-piece of 
translation — and, although others have improved upon 
certain passages, as a whole it is acknowledged to be an 
unequalled specimen of its kind. But to realize the 
true elements of the poet's genius, we must have re- 
course to his minor poems. In these, his genuine senti- 
ments found genial development. They are beautiful 
emblems of his personal history, and admit us to the 
secret chambers of his heart. We recognise, as we 
ponder them, the native fire of his muse, " unmixed 
with baser matter." Of the juvenile poems, the Mono- 
dy on Chatterton strikes us as the most remarkable. It 
overflows with youthful sympathy, and contains pas- 
sages of singular power for the eff'usions of so inexpe- 
rienced a bard. Take, for instance, the following lines, 
where an identity of fate is suggested from the con- 
sciousness of error and disappointment : 

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate 

Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. 

Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues 

This chaplet cast I on thy unshapen tomb; 

But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 

Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom: 

For oh! big gall drops shook from Folly's wing, 

Have blackened the f;iir promise of my spring ; 

And the stern Fates transpierced with viewless dart 

The last pale Hope tliut shivered at my heart. 



XVI I N T li O D U C T O R Y E S S A V . 

Few young poets of English origin, have written 
more beautiful amatory poetry than this : 

O (hare I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god ! 
A flower-entangled arbor I would seem 
To shield my love from noontide's sultry beam : 
Or bloom a mj'rtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My love might weave gaj^ garlands for her brows. 
When twilight stole across the fading vale 
To fan my love I'd be the evening gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast! 
On seraph wing Pd float a dream by night, 
To soothe my love with shadows of delight : 
Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies, 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes! 

Nor Avere religious sentiments unawakened : 

Fair the vernal mead, 
Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars; 
True impress each of their creating Sire! 
Yet nor high grove, nor many colored mead, 
Nor the green Ocean, with his thousand isles, 
Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun. 
E'er with such majesty of portraiture 
Imaged the supreme being uncreate, 
As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearless hour 
When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer 
Harped by archangels, when they sing of mercy! 
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne 
Diviner light filled heaven with ecstasy! 
Heaven's hymuings paused : and hell her yawning mouth 
Closed a brief moment. 

It is delightful to dwell upon these early outpourings 
of an ardent and gifted soul. They lay bare the real 
characteristics of Coleridge. Without them our sense 
of his genius would be far more obscure. When these 
juvenile poems were written, " existence was all a feel- 
ing, not yet shaped into a thought." Here is no mys- 
ticism or party feeling, but the simplicity and fervor of a 
fresh heart, touched by the beauty of the visible world, 
by the sufferings of genius, and the appeals of love and 
religion. The natural and the sincere here predominate 
over the studied and artificial. Time enlarged the bard's 



I N T R O D U C T O K V ESSAY. XVll 

views, increased his stores of knowledge, and matured 
his mental powers; but his genius, as pictured in his 
writings, though strengthened and fertilized, thenceforth 
loses much of its unity. Its emanations are frequently 
more gi'and and startling, but less simple and direct. 
There is more machinery, and often a confusion of ap- 
pliances. We feel that it is the same mind in an ad- 
vanced state ; the same noble instrument breathing 
deeper strains, but with a melody more intricate and sad. 
In the Sibylline Leaves we have depicted a later' 
stage of the poet's life. Language is now a more 
eflfective expedient. It follows the thought with a 
clearer echo. It is woven with a firmer hand. The 
subtle intellect is evidently at work in the very rush of 
emotion. The poet has discovered that he cannot hope 

"from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within." 

A new sentiment, the most solemn that visits the 
breast of humanity, is aroused by this reflective process 
— the sentiment of duty. Upon the sunny landscape of 
youth falls the twilight of thought. A conviction has 
entered the bosom of the minstrel that he is not free to 
wander at will to the sound of his own music. His life 
cannot be a mere revel in the embrace of beauty. He 
too is a man, born to suffer and to act. He cannot throw 
off the responsibility of life. He must sustain relations 
to his fellows. The scenery that delights him assumes 
a new aspect. It appeals not only to his love of nature, 
but his sense of patriotism : 

O divine 
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 
1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songa 
Loving the God that made me! 

More tender ties bind the poet-soul to his native isle — 

A pledge of more than passing life- 
Yea, in the very name of wife. 

* ♦ * ♦ 

2* 



XVlll INTRODUCTORY' ESSAY. 

Then was I thrilled and melted, and most warm 
Impressed a father's kiss. 

Tims gather tlie many-tinted hues of human destiny 
around the life of the young bard. To a mind of philo- 
sophical cast, the ti'ansition is most interesting. It is the 
distinguishing merit of Coleridge, that in his verse we 
find these epochs warmly chronicled. Most just is his 
vindication of himself from the charge of egotism. To 
what end are beings peculiarly sensitive, and capable of 
rare expression, sent into the world, if not to make us 
feel the mysteries of our nature, by faithful delineations, 
drawn from their own consciousness ? It is the lot, not 
of the individual, but of man in general, to feel the sub- 
limity of the mountain — the loveliness of the flower — the 
awe of devotion — and the ecstasy of love ; and we should 
bless those who truly set forth the traits and triumphs of 
our nature — the consolations and anguish of our human 
life. We are thus assured of the universality of Na- 
ture's laws — of the sympathy of all genuine hearts. 
Something of a new dignity invests the existence, whose 
common experience is susceptible of such porti'aiture. 
In the keen regi'ets, the vivid enjoyments, the agonizing 
remorse, and the glowing aspirations recorded by the 
poet, we find the truest reflections of our own souls. 
There is a nobleness in the lineaments thus displayed, 
which we can scarcely trace in the bustle and strife of 
the world. Self-respect is nourished by such poetry, 
and the hope of immortality rekindled at the inmost 
shrine of the heart. Of recent poets, Coleridge has 
chiefly added to such obligations. He has directed our 
gaze to Mont Blanc as to an everlasting altar of praise ; 
and kindled a perennial flame of devotion amid the 
snows of its cloudy summit. He has made the icy 
pillars of the Alps ring with solemn anthems. The pil- 
grim to the Vale of Chamouni shall not hereafter want 
a Hymn, by which his admiring soul may " wreak" it- 
self upon expression. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XIX 

Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, and her thousand yoices, praises God. 

To one other want of the heart has the muse of Cole- 
ridge given genuine expression. Fashion, selfishness, 
and the mercenary spirit of the age, have widely and 
deeply profaned the very name of Love. To poetry it 
flies as to an ark of safety. The English bard has set 
apart and consecrated a spot sacred to its meditation — 
" midway on the mount," " beside the ruined tower ;" 
and thither may we repair to cool the eye fevered with 
the glare of art, by gazing on the fresh verdure of na- 
ture, when 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 

Has blended with the lights of eve, 
And she is there, our hope, our joy, 

Our own dear Genevieve. 



PREFACE 



Compositions resembling those of the present 
volume are not unfrequently condemned for then- 
querulous egotism. But egotism is to be condemned 
then only when it offends against time and place, as in 
a history or an epic poem. To censure it in a monody 
or sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for 
being round. Wliy then write Sonnets or Monodies ? 
Because they give me pleasure when perhaps nothing 
else could. After the more violent emotions of sorrow, 
the mind demands amusement, and can find it in em- 
ployment alone : but full of its late sufferings, it can 
endure no employment not in some measure connected 
with them. Forcibly to turn away our attention to 
general subjects is a painful and most often an unavail- 
ing effort. 

" But O I how grateful to a wounded heart 
The tale of misery to impart — 
From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow, 
And raise esteem upon the base of woe !" — shaw. 

The communicativeness of our nature leads us to de- 
scribe our own sorrows ; in the endeavor to describe 
them, intellectual activity is exerted ; and from intellec- 
tual activity there results a pleasure, which is gradually 
associated, and mingles as a corrective, with the painful 
subject of the description. "True!" (it may be an- 



XXll PREFACE. 

swered) " but how is the Public interested in your 
sorrows or your description?" We are for ever attri- 
buting personal unities to imaginary aggregates. What 
is the Public, but a term for a number of scattered 
individuals ? Of whom as many will be interested in 
these sorrows, as have experienced the same or similar. 

" Holy be the lay 
Whioh mourning soothes the mourner on his way." 

If 1 could judge of others by myself, I should not hesi- 
tate to affirm, that the most interesting passages in all 
writings are those in which the author developes his 
own feelings ? The sweet voice of Cona* never sounds 
so sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; and I should 
almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart who could 
read the opening of the third book of the Paradise Lost 
without peculiar emotion. By a law of our nature, he, 
who labors under a strong feeling, is impelled to seek 
for sympathy : but a poet's feelings are all strong. 
Quicquid amet valde amat. Akenside therefore speaks 
with philosophical accuracy when he classes Love and 
Poetry, as producing the same effects : 

" Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue 
Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms 
Their own." pleasures of imagination. 

There is one species of egotism which is truly dis- 
gusting ; not that which leads us to communicate our 
feelings to others, but that which would reduce the 
feelings of others to an identity with our own. The 
atheist, who exclaims, "pshaw!" when he glances his 
eye on the praises of Deity, is an egotist : an old man, 
when he speaks contemptuously of Love-verses, is an 
egotist ; and the sleek favorites of fortune are egotists, 
when they condemn all " melancholy, discontented " 

* Ossian. 



PREFACE. 



verses. Surely it would be candid not merely to ask 
whether the poem pleases ourselves, but to consider 
whether or no there may not be others to whom it is 
well calculated to give an innocent pleasure. 

I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I hope, 
remember, that these poems on various subjects, which 
he reads at one time and under the influence of one set 
of feelino-s, were written at different times and prompted 
by very different feelings ; and therefore, that the sup- 
posed inferiority of one poem to another may sometimes 
be owing to the temper of mind in which he happens 
to peruse it. 

My poems have been rightly charged with a profusion 
of double epithets, and a general turgid ness. I have 
pruned the double epithets with no sparing hand ; and 
used my best efforts to tame the swell and glitter both 
of thought and diction.* This latter fault, however, 
had insinuated itself into my Religious Musings with 
such intricacy of union that sometimes I have omitted to 
disentangle the weed from the fear of snapping the 
flower. A third and heavier accusation has been brought 
against me, that of obscurity ; but not, I think, with 
equal justice. An author is obscure, when his concep- 
tions are dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, 



* Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to express some 
degree of surprise, that after having run the critical gauntlet for a cer- 
tain class of faults which I had, viz. a too ornate and elaborately poetic 
diction, and nothing having come before the judgment-seat of the Re- 
viewers during the long interval, 1 should for at least seventeen years, 
quarter after quarter, have been placed by them in the foremost rank of 
the proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and ridicule for 
faults directly opposite, viz. bald and prosaic language, and an affected 
simplicity both of matter and manner— faults which assuredly did not 
enter into the character of my compositions. 

Literurij Life, 1.51. Published 1817. 



XXIV PREFACE. 

or inappropriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in 
allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that imperso- 
nates high and absti-act truths, like Collins's Ode on the 
poetical character, claims not to be popular ; but should 
be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency is in the 
reader. But this is a charge which every poet, whose 
imagination is warm and rapid, must expect from his 
contemporaries. Milton did not escape it ; and it was 
adduced with virulence against Gray and Collins. We 
now hear no more of it : not that their poems are better 
understood at present, than they were at then- first pub- 
lication ; but their fame is established ; and a critic 
would accuse himself of frigidity or inattention, who 
should profess not to understand them. But a living 
wi'iter is yet sub judice ; and if we cannot follow his 
conceptions, or enter into his feelings, it is more con- 
soling to our pride, to consider him as lost beneath, than 
as soaring above us. If any man expect from my poems 
the same easiness of style which he admires in a drink- 
ing-song, for him I have not written. Intelligibilia, noa 
intellectum adfero. 

• I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writ- 
ings ; and I consider myself as having been amply re- 
paid without either. Poetry has been to me its own 
" exceeding gi'eat reward :" it has soothed my afiflic- 
tions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it 
has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit of 
wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all 
that meets and surrounds me. 

s. T. c. 



jJui)cnile PoetuB 



GENEVIEVE. 

"ly/IAID of my Love, sweet Genevieve! 
In Beauty's light you glide along : 
Your eye is like the star of eve, 
And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
This heart with passion soft to glow ; 
"Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
When sinking low the Sufferer wan 
Beholds no hand outstretcht to save, 
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I've seen your breast with pity heave, 
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 



SONNET. 

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. 



IVTILD Splendor of the various-vested Night ! 

Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! 
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ; 
3 



14 JUVENILE POEMS. 

And wlien tliou lovest tliy pale orb to shroud 
Behind the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky. 
Ah, such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
Now hid behind the Dragon- winged Despair : 
But soon emerging in her radiant might 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 



ANTHEM 

FOR THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL. 

CERAPHS ! around th' Eternal's seat who throng 
With tuneful ecstasies of praise : 
! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song 

Of fervent gratitude to raise — 
Like you, inspired with holy flame 
To dwell on that Almighty name 
Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh, 
And Joy in tears o'erspread the Widow's eye. 

Th' all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer ; 

The meek tear strongly pleads on high ; 
Wan Resignation struggling with despair 

The Lord beholds with pitying eye ; 
Sees cheerless want unpitied pine. 
Disease on earth its head rechne. 
And bids compassion seek the realms of woe 
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low. 



J U V E N I L B P O E M S . 15 

She coraes ! she comes ! the meek eyed power I see 

With libenil hand that loves to bless ; 
The clouds of sorrow at her presence flee ; 
Rejoice ! rejoice ! ye children of distress ! 
The b.eams that plaj?" around her head 
Through Want's dark vale their radiance spread : 
The young iincultur'd mind imbibes the ray, 
And Vice reluctant quits tli' expected prey. 

Cease, thou lorn mother ! cease thy wailings drear ; 

Ye babes ! the unconscious sob forego ; 
Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear 

Which erst did sorrow force to flow. 
Unkindly cold and tempest shrill 
In life's morn oft. the traveller chill, 
But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm ; 
And each Qf-lad scene look briafhter for the storm ! 

1789. 



TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

/^N the wide level of a mountain's head 

(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 
A sister and a brother ! 
That far outstripp'd the other ; 
Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
And looks and listens for the boy behind ; 
For he, alas ! is blind ! 
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd. 
And knows not whetlier he be first or last. 



16 JUVENILE POEMS 



MONODY 

ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. 

r\ WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, 

Seeing how gladly we all smk to sleep, 
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, 
Night following night for threescore years and ten ! 
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 

Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away ! 

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display 

For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State ! 

Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 

(That all bestowing, this withholding all) 

Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome 

Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call, 

Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home ! 

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect 
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. 
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven 
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! 
Thou ! vain word ! thou dwell'st not with the clod ! 
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn 
(Believe it, O my soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call), 
I weep, that heaven- born Genius so should fall ; 
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. 



J U V E N I L E r O E xM S . 17 

Now groans ray sickening heart, as still I view 

Thy corse of livid hue ; 
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh, 
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? 
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 

Poured forth his lofty strain ? 
Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, 
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid ; 

And o'er her darling dead 

Pity hopeless hung her head. 
While " mid the pelting of that merciless storm," 
Sunk to the cold earth Gtway's famished form ! 

SubUme of thought, and confident of fame, 
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* came. 

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along. 
He meditates the future song. 
How dauntless ^lla fray 'd the Dacyan foe; 

And while the numbers flowing strong 

In eddies whu*l, in surges throng. 
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow. 

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame. 
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare 
More than the light of outward day shines there, 
A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 
Wings grow within him, and he soars above 
Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love. 

* Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth-place of Chat- 
ter ton. 

3* 



18 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health, 
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ; 
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 
And young and old shall now see happy days. 
On many a waste he bids trim Gardens rise, 
Gives the blue sky to many a. prisoner's eyes; 
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel. 
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child ! 
That did'st so fair disclose thy early bloom, 
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume ! 
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ; 
From the hard world brief respite could they win — 
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd 

within ! 
Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 
And Joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er thy face ? 
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view. 
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew. 
And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh ! 

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour. 

When Care, of withered brow. 
Prepared the poison's death-cold power : 
Already to thy hps was raised the bowl. 
When near thee stood Affection meek 
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek), 
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; 
Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view. 
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, 
Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay ; 



J U V E N I L E P O E M S . 19 

Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, 
And mark thy Mother's thrilUng tear; 

See, see her breast's convulsive throe, 

Her silent agony of woe ! 
Ah ! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand ! 

And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command. 
But that Despair and Indignation rose. 
And told again the story of thy woes ; 
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ; 
The dread dependence on the low-born mind ; 
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart. 
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined ! 
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain 
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing 
vein ! 

Spirit blest ! 
Whether the Eternal's throne around. 
Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn ; 
Or soaring through the blest domain 
Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, — 
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound. 
Like thee with fire divine to glow ; — 
But ah ! when rage the Avaves of woe. 
Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate, 
And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate ! 

Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, 
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep ! 
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave 
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve. 
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, 
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, 



20 .1 L' V E X I L E r E M 8 . 

Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide 
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching 
wide. 

And here, in Inspiration's eager hour. 
When most tlie big soul feels the mastering power. 
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, 
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar. 
With wild unequal steps he passed along, 
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves 
below. 

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 
Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. 
Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ; 
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, 
Have blackened the fair promise of my spring ; 
And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart 
The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart ! 

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shall 

dwell 
On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh 
The shame and anguish of the evil day. 
Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell 
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray ; 
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, 
The wizard passions weave a holy spell ! 



JUVENILE POEMS. 21 

Chatterton ! that thou wert yet aUve ! 

Sure thou would 'st spread the canvass to the gale. 

And love with us the thikling team to drive 

O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; 

And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, 

Would hang, enraptured, on thy stately song. 

And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 

All deftly masked, as hoar Antiquity. 

Alas, vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood 

Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood ! 

Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream 

Where Susquehanna pours his untamed stream ; 

And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 

Waves o'er the muiTnurs of his calmer tide, 

Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee. 

Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 

And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind, 

Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 



SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 

The Pix[es, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a 
race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to 
man. At a small distance from a village in that county, 
half way up a w^ood- covered hill, is an excavation called the 
Pixies' Paiior. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; 
and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which 
the author discovered his own and those of his brothers, 
cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the 
,hill flows the river Otter. 

To this place the author, during the summer months of 
the year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies ; one of 
whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion color- 
less yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which 
occasion the following Irregular Ode was written. 



22 JUVENILE POEMS. 



"XTyHOM the untaught Shepherds call 

Pixies in their madrigal. 
Fancy's children, here we dwell : 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
Here the wren of softest note 

Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
Here the blackbird strains his throat ; 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 



When fades the moon to shadowy-pale, 
And scuds the cloud before the gale, 
Ere the Morn, all gem-bedight, 
Hath streak'd the East with rosy light, 
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews 
Clad in robes of rainbow hues : 
Or sport amid the shooting gleams 
To the tune of distant-tinkling teams. 
While lusty Labor scouting sorrow 
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow, 
Who jogs the accustomed road along. 
And paces cheery to her cheering song. 



But not our fihny pinion 
We scorch amid the blaze of day. 
When jSToontide's fiery-tressed minion 
Flashes the fervid ray. 
Aye from the sultry heat 
We to the cave retreat 
O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined 
With wildest texture, blackened o'er with age 



JUVENILE POEMS. 23 



Round them their mantle green the ivies bind, 
Beneath whose fohage pale 
Fanned by the unfrequent gale 

We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 



IV. 

Thither, while the murmuring throng 
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song, 
By Indolence and Fancy brought, 
A youthful Bard, '' unknown to Fame," 
Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, 
And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
Gazing with tearful eye, 
As round our sandy grot appear 
Many a rudely sculptured name 
To pensive Memory dear ! 
Weaving gay dreams of sunny -tinctured hue 

We glance before his view : 
Oe'r his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed 
And twine the future garland round his head. 

V, 

When Evening's dusky car 

Crowned with her dewy star 
Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy fliglit ; 

On leaves of aspen trees 

We tremble to the breeze 
Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 

Or, haply, at the visionary hour. 
Along our wildly-bowered sequestered walk. 
We listen to the enamored rustic's talk ; 
Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, 
Where voun<T-eved Loves have hid their turtle nest; 



24 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Or guide of soul-subduing power 
The glance, that from the half-confessing eye 
Darts the fond question or the soft reply. 



VI. 

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court, 
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam 
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
Or where his wave with loud unquiet song 
Dashed o'er the rocky channel froths along ; 
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest, 
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 



Hence, thou lingerer Light ! 
Eve saddens into Night. 
Mother of wildly -working dreams ! we view 
The sombre hours, that round thee stand 
With down-cast eyes (a duteous band !), 
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 
Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 
Thy power the Pixies own, 
When round thy raven brow 
Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
And clouds in water}'' colors drest 
Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest : 
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day 
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam 



J U V E N I L B r O E M S . 25 

For 'mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play. 
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 



VIII. 

Welcome^ Ladies ! to the cell 
Where the blameless Pixies dwell : 
But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaimed our Faery 
Queen, 
With what obeisance meet 
Thy presence shall we greet ! 
For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 
Graceful Ease in artless stole. 
And white-robed Purity of soul, 
With Honor's softer mien ; 
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair. 
And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair, 

Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view. 
As snow-drop wet with dew. 

IX. 

Unboastful Maid ! though now the Lily pale 

Transparent grace thy beauties meek ; 
Yet ere again along the im purpling vale. 
The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove. 
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws. 

We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 
And haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose 
Extract a Blush for Love ! 
4 



26 JUVENILE POEMS 



THE RAVEN. 



A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOT TO HIS 
LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 

TJNDERNEATH an old oak tree 

There was of swine a huge company. 

That grunted as they crunched the mast : 

For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 

Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 

One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 

Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly : 

He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy ! 

Blacker was he than blackest jet, 

Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 

He picked up the acorn and buried it straight 

By the side of a river both deep and great. 
Where then did the Raven go ? 
He went high and low, 

Over mil, over dale, did the black Raven go. 
Many Autumns, many Springs 
Travelled he with wandering wings: 
Many Summers, ma.ny Winters — 
I can't tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back, and with him a She. 
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
But ^yith many a hem! and a sturdy stroke. 
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own 
oak. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 27 

His young ones were killed ; for they could not 

depart, 
And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever ; 
And they floated it down on the course of the river. 
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 
The ship, it was launched ; but in sight of the land 
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could with- 
stand. 
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast : 
Round and round flew the Raven, and caw'd to the blast. 
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
See ! See ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 

Right glad was the Raven, and off" he went fleet, 
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, 
And he thank'd him ao-ain and ao-ain for this treat : 

They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet ! 



ABSENCE. 



A FAREWELL ODE, ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR 
JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

"Y\/"HERE graced with many a classic spoil 

Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 
I haste to urge the learned toil 
That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 
Ah me ! too mindful of the days 
Illumed by Passion's orient rays. 
When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 
Enriched me with the best of wealth. 

Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shado.vs, fly! 



28 JUVENILE FOE MS. 

Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 
But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan 
Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crowned, 
And scatter livelier roses round. 
The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On heedless eyes may pour the day ; 
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires. 
Endears her renovated ray. 
What though she leave the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When she relumes her lovely Light, 
We bless the Wanderer of the Nis^ht. 



SONNET. 

ON THE SA3IE. 

T7AREWELL parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 
To you my grateful heart still fondly clings, 
Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnished wings 
Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell. 
Adieu, adieu ! ye much loved cloisters pale ! 
Ah ! would those happy days return again, 
When 'neath your arches, free from every stain, 
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale ! 
Dear haunts ! where oft ray simple lays I sang. 
Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet. 
Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang, 
As when ere while, my weeping childhood, torn 
B .' early sorrow from my native seat. 
Mingled its tears with hers — my widowed Parent 
lorn. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 29 



TO THE MUSE. 



^T^HOUGH no bold flights to thee belong ; 

And though thy lays, with conscious fear, 
Shrink from Judgment's eye severe, 
Yet much I thank thee. Spirit of my song ' 
For, lovely Muse ! thy sweet employ 
Exalts my soul, refines my breast. 
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest, 
And softens Sorrow into pensive Joy, 
From thee I learned the wish to bless, 
From thee to commune with my heart ; 
From thee, dear Muse ! the gayer part, 
To laugh with Pity at the crowds, that press 
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun, 
Whose hues gay varying wanton in the sun. 

1789. 



WITH FIELDING'S AMELIA. 

"X/'IRTUES and Woes alike too great for man 
In the soft tale oft claim the useless siufh : 
For vain the attempt to realize the plan, 

On folly's wings must imitation fly. 
With other aim has Fielding here displayed 

Each social duty, and each social care ; 
With just yet vivid coloring portrayed 

What every wife should be, what many are. 
And sure the Parent of a race so sweet 
With double-pleasure on the page shall dwell, 
Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet. 
While Reason still with smiles delights to tell 
Maternal hope, that her loved Progeny 
In all but Sorrows shall Amelias be ! 
4* 



30 JUVENILE POEMS, 

ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT 

THAT HIS ONLY SISTER's DEATH WAS INEVITABLE. 

nPHE tear which mourned a brother's fate scarce 
-L dry- 

Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe — 
Is my heart destined for another blow ? 
O my sweet sister ! and must thou too die ? 
Ah ! how has Disappointment poured the tear 
O'er infant Hope destroyed by enrly frost ! 
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear ! 
Scarce had 1 loved you, ere I mourned you lost ; 
Say, is this hollow eye — this artless pain 
Fated to rove through Life's wide cheerless plain — 
Nor fiither, brother, sister meets its ken — 
My woes, my joys unshared ! Ah ! long ere then 
On me, thy icy dart, stern Death, be proved ; — 
Better to die, than live and not be loved ! 



ON SEEING A YOUTH 

AFFECTIONATELY WELCOMED BY A SISTER. 

T TOO a sister had ! too cruel death ! 

How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave! 
Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath ; 
Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve. 
Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind, 
Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast, 
And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assiofned, 
Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest. 
Cease, busy Memory ! cease to urge the dart ; 
Nor on my soul her love to me impress ! 



J U V E N 1 L E r O E M S . 31 

For oh I mourn in anguish — ^and my heart 
Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress. 
Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease, 
For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace ! 



PAIN. 



/^ISrCE could the Morn's first beams, the healthful 

breeze, 
All nature charm, and gay was every hour : — 
But ah ! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower 
Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease. 
Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail. 
Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim, 
And seas of pain seem waving through each limb — 
Ah, what can all Life's gilded scenes avail ? 
I view the crowd, whom youth and health inspire. 
Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay, 
Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play 
And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre. 
Ere Tyrant Pain had chased away delight, 
Ere the wild pulse throbbed anguish through the 
niofht ! 



LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 

f~\ THOLT wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more 
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds 
explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day, 
With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 



32 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures move, 

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 

Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring, 

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower 

She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 

Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam, 

Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy Poet's dream ! 

With faery wand bid the Maid arise. 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes ! 

As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 

I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed ; 

When as she twined a laurel round my brow. 

And met my kiss, and half returned my vow, 

O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart. 

And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 

dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden rise, 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes ! 
When first the lark high soaring swells his throat. 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, 
I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn. 
When the bent flower beneath the night dew weeps 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad, 
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
With her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice to float, 
Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 

Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 33- 

Whether on clustering- pinions ye are there, 
Where rich snowo blossom on the Myrtle trees, 
Or with fond languish nient around ray fair 
Sio-h in the loose luxuriance of her hair; 
O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, 
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of Heaven ! 
No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, 
No fiiirer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
A thousand Loves ai'ound her forehead fly ; 
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
Love li-rhts her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
She speaks ! and hark that passion- warbled song — 
Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong. 
As sweet as when that voice wich rap^u ous falls 
Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls ! 

(have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod. 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 
A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem 
To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : 
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My Love miglit weave gay garlands for her brows. 
When Twilight stole across the fading vale, 
To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night. 
To soothe my Love with shadows of delight : — 
Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 



34 JUVENILE POEMS. 

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame. 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air, 
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, 
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep ; — 
So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way. 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 
When by my native brook I wont to rove, 
While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love. 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek ! 
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 
Stared wildly eager in her noon-tide dream ! 
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek. 
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay, 
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellowed ray, 
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears. 
Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ. 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ! 
No more your -sky-larks melting from the sight 
Shall thrill the attuned heartstring with delight — 
No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song. 
That soars on Morning's wing your vales among. 

Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye ye leave 
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve ! 



JIJ VENI LE rOEMS. 35 

Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze 
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend. 
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 



THE ROSE. 



A S late each flow^er that sweetest blows 
I plucked, the Garden's pride ! 
Within the petals of a rose 
A sleeping Love I spied. 

Around his brows a beamy wreath 

Of many a lucent hue ; 
All purple glowed his cheek, beneath. 

Inebriate with dew. 

I softly seized the unguarded Power, 

Nor scared his balmy rest : 
And placed him, caged within the flower. 

On spotless Sara's breast. 

But when unweeting of the guile 

Awoke the prisoner sweet, 
He struggled to escape awhile, 

And stamped his faery feet. 

Ah! soon the soul-entrancino- sio-ht 

Subdued the impatient boy ! 
He gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight I 

Then clapped his wings for joy. 

« And !" he cried— ''of magic kind 
What charms this Throne endear! 
Some other Love let Venus find — 
I'll fix my empire here." 



36 JUVENILE POEMS. 



THE KISS. 

/^NE kiss, dear maid, I said, and sigh'd— 

Your scorn the little boon denied. 
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ? 
Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 
Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale, 
The Spirit of the Western Gale, 
At Mornino-'s break, at Evenino^'s close 
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, 
And hovers o'er the uninjured Bloom 
Sighing back the soft perfume. 
Vigor to the Zephyr's wing 
Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling ; 
And He the glitter of the Dew 
Scatters on the Rose's hue. 
Bashful, lo ! she bends her head. 
And darts a blush of deeper Red ! 

Too well those lovely lips disclose 
The triumphs of the opening Rose ; 
fair ! graceful ! bid them prove 
As passive to the breath of Love. 
In tender accents ; faint and low. 
Well-pleased I hear the whispered " No !" 
The whisper'd " No !" — how little meant ! 
Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent! 
For on those lovely lips the while 
Dawns the soft relenting smile. 
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy 
The gentle violence of Joy. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 37 



KISSES. 



i^UFLD, if storying Legends tell aright, 
Once framed a rich Elixir of Delight, 
A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, 
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd : 
With these the magic dews, which Evening brings, 
Brush'd from the Idalian Star by faery wings : 
Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he joined, 
Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind — 
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness 

glow, 
And Hope, the blameless Parasite of Woe. 
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, 
The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs; 
Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamored 

Dove 
Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love. 
The finished work might Env^y vainly blame, 
And "Kisses" was the precious compound's name; 
With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest, 
And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 



S 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

;;iSTER of love-lorn poets, Philomel ! 
How many bards in city garret pent. 
While at their window they with downward eye 
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud. 
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen, 
Those hoarse, unfeathered nightingales of time ! 
How many wretched bards address thy name, 
And her's, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above. 



38 J U V E N 1 L E 1' O E M S . 

But I do hear thee, and the liigh bough mark, 
Within whose mild moon-mellowed foliage hid, 
Thou vvarblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. 
0, I have listened, till my working soul, 
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies. 
Absorbed, hath ceased to listen ! Therefore oft 
I hymn thy name ; and with a proud delight 
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon, 
" Most musical, most melancholy" bird! 
That all thy soft diversities of tone, 
Thou"-h sweeter far than the delicious airs 

o 

That vibrate from a white-armed lady's harp 

What time the languishment of lonely love 

Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow, 

Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her. 

My Sara — best beloved of human kind ! 

When breathing the pure soul of tenderness. 

She thrills me with the husband's promised name ! 

1794. 



TO A YOUNG ASS. 

ITS MOTHER BKING TETHERED NEAR IT. 



P 



OOR little Foal of an oppressed Race ! 
I love the languid Patience of thy face : 
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread. 
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. 
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed. 
That never thou dost sport along the glade? 
And (most unlike the nature of things young) 
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? 
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, 
Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate? 



JUVENILE POEMS. 39 

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 

" Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ?" 

Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain 

To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain? 

And, truly very piteous is her Lot — 

Chained to a Log within a narrow spot, 

Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, 

While sweet around her waves the tempting Green ! 

Poor Ass ! thy master should have learnt to show 

Pity — best taught by fellowship of Woe! 

For much I fear me that He lives like thee. 

Half famished in a land of Luxury ! 

How askingly its footsteps hither bend, 

It seems to say, " And have I then one Friend ?" 

Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised Forlorn ! 

I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool's scorn ! 

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell 

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, 

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, 

And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! 

How thou would'st toss thy heels in gamesome play, 

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! 

Yea ! and more musically sweet to me 

Thy dissonant hai'sh bray of joy Avould be, 

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest 

The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast ! 



TO CHARLES LAMB. 

WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

nPHUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme 

Elaborate and swelling; — yet the heart 
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 
I ask not now, mv friend ! the aidinof verse 



40 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 

Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 

From business wand 'ring far and local cares, 

Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister's bed 

With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 

Soothino' each pano- with fond solicitude, 

And tenderest tones medicinal of love. 

I, too, a sister had, an only sister — 

She loved me dearly, and I doted on her ; 

To her I poured forth all my puny sorrows 

(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms). 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed. 

O ! I have waked at midnight, and have wept 

Because she was not! — Cheerily, dear Charles! 

Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year ; 

Such warm presages feel I of high hope ! 

For not uninterested the dear maid 

I've view'd — her soul affectionate yet wise, 

Her polished wit as mild as lambent glories 

That play around a sainted infant's head. 

He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees, 

Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love 

Aught to implore were impotence of mind !)* 

Tluit mv mute thoughts are sad before his throne, — 

Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes, 

Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart. 

And praise him gracious with a brother's joy 1 1794 

* "I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the h'nes, 

Of whose omnisci nt and all spreading love 
Aught to implore were iinjjoteuce of mind, — 

it being written in Scripture, Ask, and it shall be given 
you! and my human reason being, moreover, convinced of 
the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings 
to Deitv." s T. c. 1797. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 41 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 

^T^ELL me, on what lioly ground 

May Domestic Peace be found- 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptred State, 
From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottage vale She dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honor's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
Sorrow smilino; throuo-h her tears, 

OS) ' 

And conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 



THE SIGH. 



Y\/^HEN Youth his faery reign began 

Ere sorrow had proclaim 'd me man ; 
While Peace the present hour beguil'd. 
And all the lovely Prospect smiled ; 
Then Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee 
I heaved the painless Sigh for thee. 

And, when, along the waves of woe. 
My harassed Heart was doomed to know 
The frantic burst of Outrage keen, 
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen ; 
Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea 
I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee ! 
5* 



42 J U V E N I L E P O E M S . 

But soon R.eflection's power imprest 
A stiller sadness on mj^ breast; 
And sickly Hope with waning eye 
Was well content to droop and die : 
I yielded to the stern decree, 
Yet heaved a lano-uid sicrli for thee ! 

And though in distant climes to roam, 
A Avanderer from my native home, 
I fain would soothe the sense of Care, 
And lull to sleep the Joys that were. 
Thy Image may not banished be — 
Sull, Mary ! still I Sigh for thee. 

June, 1794. 



I 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
RE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade. 



Death came with friendly care ; 
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed. 
And bade it blossom there. 



LINES 



WRITTEN AT THE KINg's ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY 
THE HOUSE OF THE " MAN OF ROSS." 

"DICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards, 
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, 
Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O Traveller, hear ! 
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. 
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, 
With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ; 



.7 U V E M r. E r O E M S . 43 

lie lieard the widow's lieaven-breatlied prayer of 

praise, 
He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 
Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, 
Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray. 
Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, 
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul. 
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. 
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene 
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, 
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought ; 
Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt, 
And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt ! 



EPIGRAM. 

TTOARSE Meevius reads his hobbling verse 

To all, and at all times ; 
And finds them both divinely smooth, 
His voice, as well as rhymes. 

Yet folks say — " Maevius is no ass ;" 

But Maevius makes it clear. 
That he's a monster of an ass — 

An ass without an ear. 



LINES 

TO A BFAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. 

/^ISTCE more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wan- 
dering near, 
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 



44 .1 U V E N I L E r O E M S . 

Escaped the flashing of tlie noontide liours, 
AVith one fresh garhmd of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zepliyr-haiinted brink I turn), 
My hmguid hand shall wreathe thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ; 
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, 
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell ! 
Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supply 
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
The ellin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, 
Released from school, their little hearts at rest, 
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, 
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread 
To hst the much-loved maid's accustomed tread : 
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command. 
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. 

Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls 
The faded form of past delight recalls, 
What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest. 
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon. 
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among. 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 



J U V E N 1 L E P O E M S . 



LINES ON A FRIEND 

WHO DIED OF A FRE>ZY FEVER INDUCED BY 
CALUMNIOUS REPORTS. 

Tj^ DMUND ! thy grave with aching eye I scan, 
And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast — 

Man! 
'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth 
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth, 
We force to start amid her feigned caress 
Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 
A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear, 
And on we go in heaviness and fear ! 
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 
Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour 
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted 

ground, 
And mingled forms of Misery rise around : 
Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast, 
That courts the future woe to hide the past; 
Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side, 
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied : 
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain, 
Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. 
Rest, injured shade ! Shall Slander s(juatting near 
Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear ? 
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, 
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies, 
Nursed in thy lieart the firmer Virtues grew. 
And in thy lieart they withered ! Sucli chill dew 
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ; 
And Vanity her Hlmy net-work spread. 



46 JUVENILE POEMS. 

With eye that rolled around in asking- gaze, 
And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise. 
Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well ! 
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? 
Rest, injured Shade ! the poor man's grateful pi-ayer 
On heaven-Avaid wing tliy wounded soul shall bear. 
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass. 
And sit me down upon its recent grass, 
With int.ov^erted eye I contemplate 
Similitude of soul, perhaps, of — fate ; 
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd 
Energic Reason and a shaping mind, 
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part, 
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 
Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass 

sand. 
I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze. 

Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound ? 
Tell me, cold grave ! is death with poppies crown'd ! 
Tired Sentinel ! mid fitful starts I nod. 
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

WITH A POKM OJV THK FRKNCH RKVOLUTION. 

IVIUCH on my early youth I love to dwell. 

Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, 
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 
1 heai-d of guilt and wondei-ed at the tale ! 



J U V E N I L E P O E M 8 . 47 

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. 
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 
In broken radicince on the wavy stream, 
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 
Mourned with the breeze, Lee Boo !* o'er thy tomb ! 
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near, 
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear : 
No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye. 
And suff"ering Nature wept that one should die If 

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast. 

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : 

When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain 

With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed ; 

Her banners, hke a midnight meteor, flowed; 

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 

She came, and scattered battles from her eyes ! 

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire 

And swept with wild hand the Tyrtaean lyre : 

Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance. 

And strode in joy the reeking plains of France ! 

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low. 
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, 
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid. 
And ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll. 
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 

* Lee Boo, the sou of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew 
Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died 
of the sniall-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard. 
See Keate's Account. 

t Southey's Retrospect. 



48 JUVENILE I'OEMS. 

If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
Tlian the love-vviklered Maniac's brain hath seen 
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 
If these demand the impassioned Poet's care — 
If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined, 
The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign 
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 
Nor, Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse — 
Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues; 
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
From Fhittery's night-shade: as he feels he sings. 

September, 1792. 



SONNET I. 

" Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre 
He struck with desultory hand, and drew 
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue." 

BOWLES. 

"lYI Y heart has thanked thee, Bowles ! for those 

soft strains 
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmurinof 
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring ! 
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 
Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I 

went : 
And when the mightier throes of mind began. 
And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, 
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned 
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; 



J U V E N I r. E P O E M S . 49 

Biddinof a strangle mysterious Pleasure brood 
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, 
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep. 



SONNET II. 

A S late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, 

With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : 
She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale — 
" Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name. 
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice 
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice 
Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. 
Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl ! 
Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure 
Of Pomp, and pi-oud Precipitance of soul 
Wildered with meteor fires. Ah, Spirit pure! 
That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy !" 



SONNET 111= 



n"^HOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude 
Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell ; 
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ; 
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ! 
For lo ! Relio-ion at his strono- behest 
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell. 
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest, 
6 



50 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy; 
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail 
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly : 
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil 
To smile with fondness on her gazing son ! 



W 



SONNET IV. 

HEN British Freedom for a happier land 
Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with 
affriofht, 
Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight 
Sublime of Hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand 
(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame) 
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine. 
And at her altar pour the stream divine 
Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 
Eer sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 
With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when 

the doom 
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 
Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the West 
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze. 
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 



SONNET V. 

TT was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed 

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 
My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, 
Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed : 



JUVENILE POEMS. 51 

And sweet thy voice, as wlien o'er Laura's bier 

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade ; 

Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade 

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 

Now patriot rage and indignation high 

Swell the full tones ! And now thine eye-beams 

dance 
Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry ! 
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored, 
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's 

sword. 



O 



SONNET VI. 

WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, 
As though a thousand souls one death- groan 
poured ! 
Ah me ! they saw beneath a hireling's sword 
Their Kosciusko fall ! Through the swart air 
(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell 
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell 
The dirge of murdered Hope ! while Freedom pale 
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, 
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear 
That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek 
Fit channel found, and she had drained tlie bowl 
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul ! 



52 JUVENILE POEMS. 

SONNET VII. 

A S when far off the warbled strains are heard 
Tliat soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 
Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird 
Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 
He bathes no pinion in the desvy light, 
No Fatlicr*s joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, 
Yet still the lisino- radiance cheers his sig^ht : 
His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! 
Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice 
Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, 
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: 
For lo ! the morning struggles into dsiji 
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the 
ray ! 



SONNET VIII. 

''PHOU gentle look, that didst my soul beguile, 
Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond 
dream 
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
Wliat time, in sickly mood, at parting day 
I lay me down and think of happier years; 
Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, 
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. 
O pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone ! — 
Could I recall you! — But that thought is vain. 
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
To luie the fleet-win<red Travellers back aofain : 



JUVENILE POEMS. 53 

Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
Like the brio-ht Rainbow on a willowy stream. 



SONNET IX. 

"DALE Roamer through the night! thou poor 

-'■ Forlorn ! 

Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, 

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 

Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn ! 

The world is pitiless : the chaste one's pride, 

Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress : 

Thy Loves and they that envied thee, deride : 

And Vice alone will shelter wietchedness ? 

! I could weep to think, that there should be 

Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place 

Foul offerings on the shrine of misery. 

And force from famine the caress of Love ; 

May He shed heahng on thy sore disgrace. 

He, the great Comforter that rules above ! 



SONNET X. 



C WEET Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 

To see thee, poor Old Man ! aud thy grey hairs 
Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
My Father ! throw away this tattered vest 
That mocks thy shivering ! take my garment — use 
A young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews 
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy 
breast. 

6* 



54 JUVENILE POEMS. 

My Sura too shall tend thee, like a Child : 
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, 
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness. 
He did not so, the Galilean mild, 
Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors, 
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome 
Sores ! 



SONNET XI. 



^PHOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress 

Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, 
And probe thy sore" wound sternly, though the 

while 
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? 
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale. 
When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale 
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? 
Faint was that Hope, and rayless ! — Yet 'twas fair, 
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest ; 
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, 
And nursed it with an agony of care. 
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir 
That, wan and sickly, droops upon her breast ! 



SONNET Xn. 

TO THE AUTHOR Or "THE ROBBERS." 

Q CHILLER ! that hour I would have wished to die 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, 
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry — 



J U V E N I L E r O E M S . 55 

Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumpliant shout 
Black Honor screamed, and all her goblin rout 
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! 
Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimit}' ! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood, 
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye, 
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 



LINES 



COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF 
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. 

^V^TITH many a pause and oft reverted eye 

I chmb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters 

o 

near 
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody : 
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear 
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 
That on green plots o'er precipices browse : 
From the deep fissures of the naked rock 
The Yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughs 
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms 

white) 
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 
I rest and now have gained the topmost site. 
Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 
My gaze ! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, 
Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea ! 
Deep sighs my lonely heart : I drop the tear : 
Enchanting spot ! were my Sara here ! 



56 JUVExXILE POEMS. 

LINES 

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. 

/^ PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love 
To rest thine head beneath an ohve tree, 
I would that from the pinions of thy dove 
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be ! 
For ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, 
And fain to her some soothing song would write, 
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy. 
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light. 
But broke my plighted word — -ah ! false and recreant 
wie'ht ! 

o 

Last night as I my weary head did pillow 
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, 
Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, 
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. 
" From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal 

boast, 
Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ; 
But leave me with the matin hour, at most ! 
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, 
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.'* 

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, 
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween : 
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught — 
** Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !" 
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed 
The morning shot her dewy glances keen, 
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 
*'Now, Bard! Til work thee woe!" the laughing 
Elfin said. 



JUVENILE P O E xM S . 57 

Sleep, sofLly-breathing God ! his downy wing 
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic strino-, 
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. 
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? 
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ? 
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start 
(ISTo fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) 
That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his 
sweet trance ! 

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ; 

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam : 

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine ! 

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, 

He sprang from Heaven ! Such joys with sleep did 

'bide, 
That I the living image of my dream 
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd — ■ 
" 0! how shall I behold mv Love at even- tide !" 



T 



IMITATED FROM 03SIAN. 
HE stream with languid murmur creeps, 



In Lumin's flowery vale : 
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps 
Slow-wavinsr to the ofale. 

Cease, restless gale !" it seems to say, 
" Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 

The honors of my vernal day 
On rapid wing are flying. 



58 J U V E x\ I L E P O E M S . 

" To-morrow shall the traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming : 
His searching eye shall vainly roam 
The dreary vale of Liimin." 

With eager gaze and wetted cheek 

My wonted haunts along, 
Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek 

The Youth of simplest song. 

But I along the breeze shall roll 
The voice of feeble power ; 

And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, 
In slumber's nightly hour. 



THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. 

TTOW long will ye round me be swelling, 
ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? 
Not always in caves was my dwelling. 

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. 
Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma 

In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; 
The warriors beheld Ninathoma, 

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid ! 

A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted ! 

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest — 
For lovely appear the departed 

When they visit the dreams of my rest ! 
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion 

Fleet the shadowy forms of delight — 
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean ! 

To howl through my cavern by night. 



JUVENILE r O E xM S . 59 



CASIMIR. 



If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latiu 
Poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casiniir in bold- 
ness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versifi- 
cation. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated 
hi to English about one hundred and fifty years ago, by G. 
Hils, I think.* I never saw the translation. A few of the 
Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by 
Watts. I have subjoined the third Ode of the second 
Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an 
effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, 
I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of sudden- 
ness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the 
original. 

AD LYRAM. 

O ONORA buxi filia sutilis, 

Pendebis alta, barbite, populo, 
Dum ridet aer, et supinas 

Sollicitat levis aura frondes. 

Te sibilantis lenior halitus 
Peiflabit Euri : me juvet interim 
Collum reclinasse, et virenti 
Sic temeref jacuisse ripa. 

Eheu ! serenum quae nebulee tegmit 
Repente coelum ! qiiis sonus imbrium ! 
Surgamus — heu semper fugaci 
Gaudia preeteritura passu. 

* The Odes of Casiniir, translated by G. H. (G. Hils). 
London, 1646, 12mo. h. n. c. 

t Had Casimir any better authority for this quantity 
than TerHdliari' s line — 

Immemor ille Dei temere committere tale — ? 
In the classic poets, the last syllable is, I believe, uniformly 
cut off. H. N. c. 



60 JUVENILE rOE MS. 

IMITATION. 

nnHE solemn-breathing air is ended — 

Cease, O Lyre ! thy kindred lay ! 
From the poplar branch suspended, 
Glitter to the eye of day ! 

On thy wires, hovering, dying. 
Softly sighs the summer wind ; 
I will slumber, careless lying. 
By yon waterfall reclined. 

In the forest, hollow-roaring. 
Hark ! I hear a deep'ning sound — 
Clouds rise thick with heavy lowering ! 
See ! the horizon blackens round ! 

Parent of the soothing measure. 
Let me seize th}^ wetted string ! 
Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure, 
Headiono-, ever on the wino- 1 



IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. 

TF, while my passion I impart. 
You deem my words untrue, 
place your hand upon my heart — 
Feel how it throbs for you ! 

Ah, no ! reject the thoughtless claim 

In pity to your Lover ! 
That thrilling touch would aid the flame, 

It wishes to discover. 



J U V E N 1 L E r O E M S . 61 

DARWINIANA. 

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. 

(composed during illness, and in absence.) 

~PjIM Hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar, 

rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car ! 
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove, 
And give me to the bosom of my Love ! 
My gentle Love ! caressing and carest, 
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ; 
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes. 
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs ; 
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, 
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. 
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May 
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day : 
Young Day, returning at her promised hour. 
Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower, — 
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, 
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. 
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : 
His pitying misfress mourns, and mourning heals ! 

1796. 



A« 



TO AN INFANT. 

! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life ! 
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife ; 
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye. 
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry ! 
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe. 
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know ! 
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; 
7 



62 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Alike the Good, the 111 offend thy sight. 
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
Untaught, yet wise ! 'mid all thy brief alarms 
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms. 
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest ! 
Man's breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh — 
A Babe art thou — and such a Thing: am I ! 
To anger rapid, and as soon appeased, 
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased. 
Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow, 
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow I 

O thou that rearest with celestial aim 

The future Seraph in my-mortal frame. 

Thrice holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet 

As on I totter with unpractised feet, 

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee. 

Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy ! 



O N T H E ♦ 

CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. 

I. 
'T^HIS day among the faithful placed. 

And fed with fontal manna, 
O with maternal title graced — 
Dear Anna's dearest Anna ! 



While others wish thee wise and fair, 

A maid of spotless fame, 
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer — • 

May's t thou deserve thy nanie ! 



JUVENILE POEMS. 63 

III. 
Thy mother's name — a potent spell, 

That bids the virtues hie 
From mystic grove and living cell 

Confess'd to fancy's eye ; — 



Meek quietness without offence ; 

Content in homespun kirtle ; 
True love ; and true love's innocence. 

White blossom of the myrtle ! 



Associates of thy name, sweet child ! 

These virtues mayst thou win ; 
With face as eloquently mild. 

To say, they lodge within. 



So, when her tale of days all flown. 
Thy mother shall be mist here ; 

When Heaven at length shall claim its own. 
And angels snatch their sister; 

VII. 

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance. 

May gaze with stifled breath ; 
And oft, in momentary trance. 

Forget the waste of death. 

VIII. 

E'en thus a lovely rose I view'd. 

In summer-swelling pride ; 
Nor mark'd the bud that, green and rude, 

Peep'd at the rose's side. 



64 JUVENILEPOEMS. 

IX. 

It cnanced, I pass'd again that way. 

In autumn's latest hour, 
And wond'ring saw the self-same spray 

Rich with the self-same flower. 



Ah, fond deceit ! the rude green bud, 

Alike in shape, place, name, 
Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud. 

Another and the same ! 

1796. 



LINES 



WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, 
SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM 
BRISTOL. 

Goo*l verse most good, and bad verse then seems better 

Received from absent friend by way of Letter. 

For what so sweet can labored lays impart 

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart? — Anon. 

"IVrOR travels my meandering eye 
The starry wilderness on high ; 

'Nor now with curious sight 
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass, 
Move with ''green radiance " through the grass. 

An emerald of hght. 

ever present to my view ! 
My wafted spirit is with you, 

And soothes your boding fears : 

1 see you all oppressed with gloom 
Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 

Ah me ! you are in tears ! 



J U V E x\ I L E P O E M S . 65 

Beloved Woman ! did you fly 

Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye. 

Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
With cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper sore with tenderness, 

When aches the Void within. 

But why with sable wand unblest 
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 

Dim-visaged shapes of Dread ? 
Untenanting its beauteous clay 
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way. 

And hovers round my head ! 

I felt it prompt the tender dream, 
When slowly sank the day's last gleam ; 

You roused each gentler sense. 
As sio^hins^ o'er the blossom's bloom 
Meek evening wakes its soft perfume 

With viewless influence. 

And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans 
Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 

In bold ambitious sweep, 
Tlie onward-surging tides supply 
The silence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the channelled Isle* 
(Where stands one solitary pile 

Unslated by the blast) 
The watchfire, like a sullen star, 
Twinkles to many a dozing tar 

Rude cradled on the mast. 

* The Holmes, in the Bristol ChanneL 

7* 



M JUVENILE POE IMS. 

Even there — beneath that hght-house tower- 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere peace with Sara came, 
Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
To count the echoings of my feet, 

And watch the storm-vexed flame. 

And there in black soul -jaundiced fit 
A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit, 

And listen to the roar : 
When mountain surges bello^ving deep 
With an uncouth monster leap 

Plunged foaming on the shore. 

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark : 

Her vain distress-sruns hear : 
And when a second sheet of light 
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night — 

To see no vessel there ! 

But Fancy now more gaily sings ; 
Or if awhile she droop her wings 

As sky-larks 'mid the corn, 
On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
The oblivious poppy o'er her nest 

Nods, till returning mora. 

mark those smiling tears, that swell 
The opened rose ! From heaven they fell. 

And with the sun-beam blend. 
Blest visitations from above, 
Such are the tender Woes of Love 

Fostering the heart they bend ! 



JUVENILE POEMS. 67 

When stormy Midnight howhng round 
Beats on our roof with clattering sound. 

To me your arms you'll stretch : 
Great God ! you'll say — To us so kind, 

shelter from this loud bleak wind 
The houseless, friendless wretch ! 

The tears that tremble down your cheek 
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 

In Pity's dew divine; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
Shall make your rising bosom feel 

The answering swell of mine ! 

How oft, my Love ! with shapings sweet 

1 paint the moment, we shall meet ! 

With eager speed I dart — 
I seize you in the vacant air. 
And fancy, with a husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! 

'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour 
Flashes the golden-colored flower 

A fair electric flame : 
And so shall flash my love-charged eye 
Wlien all the heart's big ecstasy 

Shoots rapid through the frame ! 



LINES TO A FRIEND, 

IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER. 

A WAY, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh. 
The peevish off"spring of a sickly hour ! 
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, 
When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. 



68 JUVENILE POEx\IS. 

Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam 
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train; 
To-morrow shall the many-colored main 
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam ! 

Wild as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
Flies o'er his mystic lyre ; in shadowy dance 
The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance 
Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! 

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate ; 
The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's wild murmurs, led 
His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile 
Survey the sanguinary despot's might, 
And haply hurl the pageant from his height 
Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 

There shivering sad beneath the tempest's frown, 
Round his tired hmbs to wrap the purple vest ; 
And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest ! 
Barter for food the jewels of his crown. 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS- 
EVE OF 1794. 

n^HIS is the time, when most divine to hear, 

The voice of adoration rouses me, 
As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne. 
Yea, mingling with the choir, I seem to view 



JUVENILE POEMS. 69 

The vision of the heavenly multitude. 

Who hymned the song of peace o'er Bethlehem's 

fields ! 
Yet thou more bright than all the angel blaze, 
That harbingered thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes ! 
Despised Galilean ! For the great 
Invisible (by symbols only seen) 
With a peculiar and surpassing light 
Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man. 
When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 
Mourns for the oppressor. Fair the vernal mead. 
Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars ; 
True impress each of their creating Sire ! 
Yet nor high grove, nor many-colored mead, 
Nor the green Ocean with his thousand isles, 
Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran Sun, 
E'er with such majesty of portraiture 
Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate. 
As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearful hour 
When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer 
Harped by Archangels, when tliey sing of mercy ! 
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his 

throne 
Diviner liglit filled Heaven with ecstasy ! 
Heaven's hymnings paused : and Hell her yawning 

mouth 
Closed a brief moment. 

Lovely was the death 
Of Him whose life was Love ! Holy with power 
He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed 
Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
What floating mists of dark idolatry 
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire : 
And first by Fear uncharmed the drowsed Soul. 



70 JUVENILE rOEMS. 

'Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel 

Dim recollections ; and thence soared to Hope, 

Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good 

The Eternal dooms for his immortal sons. 

From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love 

Attracted and a)3sorbed : and centred there 

God only to behold, and know, and feel. 

Till by exclusive consciousness of God 

All self-annihilated it shall make 

God its identity : God all in all ! 

We and our Father one ! 

And blest are they, 
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, 
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men, 
Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze 
Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy ! 
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend 
Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
As steps, that upward to their Father's throne 
Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor loved. 
They nor contempt embosom nor revenge : 
For they dare know of what may seem deform 
The Supreme Fair sole operant : in whose sight 
All things are pure, his strong controUing Love 
Alike from all educing perfect good. 
Theirs too celestial courage, inly armed — 
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse 
On their great Father, great beyond compare ! 
And marching onwards view high o'er their heads 
His waving banners of Omnipotence. 

Who the Creator love, created might 

Dread not : within their tents no terrors walk. 



JUVENILE rOE MS. 71 

For they are holy things before the Lord 

Aye iinprofaned, though Earth should league with 

Hell; 
God's altar grasping with an eager hand. 
Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends 
Yell at vain distance. Soon refreshed from Heaven 
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss 
Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised : 
And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs ! 
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, 
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds 
All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoved 
Views e'en the immitigable ministers 
That shower down vengeance on these latter 

days. 
For kindling with intenser Deity 
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, 
And at the renovating wells of Love 
Have filled their vials with salutary wrath. 
To sickly Nature more medicinal 
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours 
Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith. 
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares 
Drink up the Spirit, and the dim regards 
Self- centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire 
New names, new features — by supernal grace 
Enrobed with Light, and naturalized in Heaven. 
As when a shepherd on a vernal morn 
Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow 
foot, 



72 J U V E N I L E r O E M S . 

Darkling he fixes on the immediate road 

His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 

Hid or deformed. But lo ! the bursting Sun ! 

Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam 

Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes 

Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 

On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 

Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, 

And tvide around the landscape streams with glory ! 

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 

Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 

Truth of subliming import ! with the which 

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 

He from his small particular orbit flies 

With blest outstarting ! From Himself he flies, 

Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 

Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

This is indeed to dwell with the most High ! 

Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 

Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. 

But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 

Unfeeling of our universal Sire. 

And that in his vast family no Cain 

Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 

Victorious murder a blind suicide) 

Haply for this some younger Angel now 

Looks down on human nature : and behold ! 

A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad 

Embattling interests on each other rush 

With unhelmed rage ! 

'Tis the sublime of man, 
Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves 



JUVENILE POEMS. 73 

Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! 

This fraternizes man, this constitutes 

Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God 

Diffused through all, that doth make all one Avhole ! 

This the worst superstition, him except 

Aught to desire, Supreme Realit}'! 

The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! 

Fiends of Superstition ! not that oft 

The erring priest hath stained with brother's blood 
Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath 
Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun, 
Peopled with death ; or where more hideous Trade 
Loud laughing packs his bales of human anguish ; 

1 will raise up a mourning, ye fiends ! 

And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 

Hiding the present God ; whose presence lost, 

The moral world's cohesion, we become 

An anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitched, 

Made blind by lusts, disheiited of soul, 

No common centre Man, no common sire 

Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 

Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 

Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams. 

Feeling himself, his own low self the whole ; 

When he by sacred sympathy might make 

The whole one self ! self, that no alien knows ! 

Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel ! 

Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own, 

Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 

This the Messiah's destined victory ! 

But first offences needs must come ! Even now P 

* January 21st, 1794, iu the debaie on the address to his 
Mrtjesty, on the speech from the throne, the Earl of Guild- 
8 



74 JUVEiNlLE POEMS. 

(Black Nell laughs horrible — to hear the scoflf!) 
Thee to defend, meek Galilean ! Thee 
And thy mild laws of love unutterable. 
Mistrust and enmity have burst the bands 
Of social peace ; and listening treachery lurks 
With pious fraud to snare a brother's life ; 
And childless widows o'er the groaning land 
Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread. 
Thee to defend, dear Saviour of mankind ! 
Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince of 

peace! 
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War, — 
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North, 
The lustful murderess of her wedded Lord ! 
And he, connatural mind ! whom (in their songs 
So bards of elder time had haply feigned) 
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, 
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe 
Horrible sympathy ! And leagued with these 
Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore ! 
Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! 

ford moved an amendment to the following effect: — " That 
the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest op- 
portunity to conclude a peace with France," &c. This 
motion was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who " con- 
sidered the war to be merely grounded on one principle — 
the preservation of the Christian Religion.'' May 30th, 
1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number of resolutions, 
with a view to the establishment of a peace with France. 
He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon, in 
these remarkable words : " The best road to Peace, my 
Lords, is War ! and war carried on in the same manner in 
which we are taught to worship our Creator, namely, with 
all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our 
hearts, and with all our strength." 



JUVENILE POEMS. 75 

Death's prime slave-merchants! Scorpion whips 

of Fate ! 
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate, 
Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons ! 
Thee to defend the Moloch priest prefers 
The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd 
That Deity, accomplice Deity 
In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath 
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets 
To scatter the red ruin on their foes ! 
O blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
With blessedness ! 

Lord of unsleeping Love,* 
From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die. 
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form, 
Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong 
Making Truth lovely, and her future might 
Magnetic o'er the fixed untremblin^ heart. 
In the primeval age a dateless while 
The vacant Shepherd wandered with his flock. 
Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. 
But soon Imagination conjured up 
A host of new desires ; with busy aim. 
Each for himself, Earth's eager children toiled. 
So Property began, twy-streaming fount, 
Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 
Hence the soft couch, and many-colored robe. 
The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast, 
With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul 

* Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, my God, mine 
Holy One ? We shall not die. O Lord, thou hast ordained 
them for j idgraent, &c. Habakkuk. 



76 JUVENILE POEMS. 

To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 
Unsensualized the mind, which in the means 
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end, 
Best pleasured with its own activity. ' 
And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm, 
The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want, 
Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills 
That vex and desolate our mortal life. 
Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate source 
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 
To ceaseless action goading human thought. 
Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord ; 
And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand 
Strong as a host of armed Deities, 
Such as the Wind Ionian fabled erst. 

From avarice thus, from luxury and war 
Sprang heavenly science ; and from science freedom. 
O'er wakened realms Philosophers and Bards 
Spread in concentric circles ; they whose souls. 
Conscious of their high dignities from God, 
Brook not wealth's rivalry ! and they who long 
Enamored with the charms of order hate 
The unseemly disproportion ; and whoe'er 
Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse 
On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage 
Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud 
And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth 
SmiHng majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 
Measured firm paces to the calming sound 
Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day, 
When, stung to rage by pity, eloquent men 
Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered 
tribes 



JUVENILE POEMS. 77 

That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind,— 

These hushed awhile with patient eye serene 

Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 

Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 

And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might 

Moulding confusion to such perfect forms, 

As erst were wont, — bright visions of the day ! — 

To float before them, when, the summer noon, 

Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined, 

They felt the sea breeze lift their youthful locks ; 

Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve. 

Wandering with desultory feet inhaled 

The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods 

And many-tinted streams, and setting sun 

With all his gorgeous company of clouds 

Ecstatic gazed! then homeward as they strayed 

Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused 

Why there was misery in a world so fair. 

Ah ! far removed from all that glads the sense. 

From all that softens or ennobles Man, 

The wretched Many ! bent beneath their loads 

They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise 

Their cots' transmuted plunder ! From the tree 

Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen, 

Rudely disbranched ! Blest Society ! 

Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste. 

Where oft majestic through the tainted noon 

The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 

Who falls not prostrate dies! And where by 

night. 
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 
The lion couches ; or hyaena dips 
Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws •, 
Or serpent plants his vast moon-ghttering bulk, 

8* 



78 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth* yells. 
His bones loud-crashing ! 

ye numberless, 
Whom foul oppression's ruffian gluttony, 
Drives from life's plenteous feast! O thou poor 

wretch 
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want, 
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand 
Dost lift to deeds of blood ! pale-eyed form, 
The victim of seduction, doomed to know 
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ! 
Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers 
Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered home 
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart ! 
O aged women ! ye who weekly catch 
The morsel tossed by law-forced charity, 
And die so slowly, that none call it murder ! 
loathly suppliants ! ye, that unreceived 
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
Of the full Lazar house , or, gazing, stand. 
Sick with despair! ye to glory's field 
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death. 
Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak ! 
O thou poor widow, who, in dreams dost view 
Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
Start'st with a shriek ; or in thy half-thatched cot 
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold, 
Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile. 
Children of wretchedness ! More groans must rise. 
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 

* Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. 
Some believe it is the elephant, some the hippopotamus • 
some affirm it is the wild bull. Poetically, it designates 
any large quadruped. 



W 



JUVENILE POEMS. 79 

Yet is the day of retribution nigh : 
The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal : 
And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
The innumerable multiiude of Wrongs 
By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile, 
Children of wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ; 
And lo ! the great, the rich, the mighty Men, 
The Kings and the chief Captains of the World, 
With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven 
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth, 
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
Even now the storm begins ;* each gentle name 
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 
Tremble far-oflf — for lo ! the giant Frenzy 
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm 
Mocketh hiorh heaven ; burst hideous fi'om the cell 
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, 
Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits 
Nursing the impatient earthquake. 

O return ! 
Pure Faith ! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form 
Whose scarlet robe was stiff" with earthly pomp, 
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold. 
Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that cry ? 
The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked 
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood ; 
She that v/orked whoredom with the Demon Power, 
And from the dark embrace all evil things 

* Alluding to the French Revolution. 



80 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Brought forth and nurtured : mitred Atheism ! 

And patient Folly who on bended knee 

Gives back the steel that stabbed him : and pale 

Fear 
Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surrouna 
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight ! 
Return, pure Faith ! return, meek Piety ! 
The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart 
Self-governed, the vast family of Love 
Raised from the common earth by common toil 
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
As float to earth, permitted visitants ! 
When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild 
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, 
And odors snatched from beds of amaranth. 
And they, that from the crystal river of life 
Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales ! 
The favored good man in his lonely walk 
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven. 
And such delights, such strange beatitudes 
Seize on my young anticipating heart 
When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
For in his own and in his father's might 
The Saviour comes ! While as the Thousand Years 
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! 
Old Ocean claps his hands The mighty Dead 
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 
With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan 
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
The high groves of the renovated Earth 
Unbosom their glad echoes ; inly hushed, 



JUVENILE POEMS. 81 

Adoring Newton his serener 63-6 
Raises to heaven : and he of mortal kind 
Wisest, he* first who marked the ideal tribes 
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. 
Lo ! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage, 
Him, full of years, from his loved native land, 
Statesmen blood-stained and priests idolatrous 
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude, 
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired, 
And mused expectant on these promised years ! 

Years ! the blest pre-eminence of Saints ! 
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright. 
The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes, 
What time they bend before the Jasper Thronef 
Reflect no lovelier hues ! Yet ye depart, 
And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange, 
Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 
For who of woman born may paint the hour. 
When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane 
Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born 
May image in the w^orkings of his thought. 
How the black- visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched^ 
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans. 
In feverous slumbers — destined then to wake, 
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name. 
And Ano^els shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
The last great Spirit lifting high in air 



* David Hartley. 

t Rev. chap. iv. v. 2 aud 3. — And immediately I was in 
the Spirit ; and, behold, a Throne was set in Heaven, aud 
one sat on the Throne. And he that sat was to look upon 
like a jasper and a sardine stone, &c. 

t The final destruction impersonated. 



82 .1 U V E N I L E P O E M S . 

Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One, 
Time is no more ! 

Believe thou, my soul. 
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave. 
Shapes of a di'eam ! The veiling clouds retire. 
And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God 
Forth flashing unimaginable day, 
Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell. 



Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hover o'er 

With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 

Ebullient with creative Deity ! 

And ye of plastic power, that interfused 

Roll through the grosser and material mass 

In oro^anizino^ sura^e ! Holies of God ! 

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 

I haply journeying my immortal course 

Shall sometime join your mystic choir. Till then 

I discipline my young and novice thought 

In ministeries of heart-stirrino- sono*, 

And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing 

Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 

Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 

Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 

As the great Sun, when he his influence 

Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 

Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flows. 



JUVENILE 1' O E M S . 83 

THE DESTINY OF NA.TIONS. 

A VISION. 

A USPICIOUS Reverence ! Hush the meaner 
song, 
Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured 
To the Great Father, only Rightful King, 
Eternal Father ! King Omnipotent ! 
To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good ! 
The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God ! 

Such symphony requires best instrument. 

Seize, then, my soul ! from Freedom's trophied dome 

The harp which hangeth high between the shields 

Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that 

Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back 

Man's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced. 

For what is freedom, but the unfetter'd use 

Of all the powers which God for use had given ? 

But chiefly this, him first, him last to view 

Through meaner powers and secondary things 

Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze, 

For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 

Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 

For infant minds ; and we in this low world 

Placed with our backs to bright reality. 

That we may learn with young unwounded ken 

The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, 

Whose latence is the plenitude of all, 

Thou with retracted beams, and self-eclipse 

Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun. 

But some there are who deem themselves most free 
When they within this gross and visible sphere 



84 J U V E N I L E P O E M S , 

Chain down the wino-ed thoufdU, scoffino- ascent. 
Proud in their meanness ; and themselves they cheat 
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase, 
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences, 
Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
Those blind omniscients, those almighty slaves. 
Untenanting creation of its God. 

But properties are God : the naked mass 
(If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost) 
Acts only by its inactivity. 
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
That as one body seems the aggregate 
Of atoms numberless, each organized ; 
So by a strange and dim similitude 
Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
With absolute ubiquity of thought 
(His one eternal self-affirming act !) 
All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
With various province and apt agency 
Each to pursue its own self-centring end. 
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine : 
Some roll the genial juices through the oak : 
Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air. 
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed, 
Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car. 
Thus these pursue their never- varying course, 
Xo eddy in their stream. Others, more wild, 
With complex interests weaving human fates. 
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
Evolve the process of eternal good. 

And what if some rebellious o'er dark realms 
Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God, 



J U V E x\ I L E P O E M S . 85 

And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day. 
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapory head 
The Laplander beholds the far-off sun 
Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows, 
While yet the stern and solitary night 
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam, 
Guiding his course or by Niemi lake 
Or Balda Zhiok,"^ or the mossy stone 
Of Solfar-kapper,f while the snowy blast 
Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge. 
Making the poor babe at its mother's back;}] 
Scream in its scanty cradle ; he the while 
Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 

* Balda Zhiok ; i. e. mous altitudiiiis, the highest moun- 
tain in Lapland. 

t Solfar Kapper; capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium quot- 
quot veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoque 
cultui dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus aus- 
tralis situs semimilliaris spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, 
quem curiositatis gratia aliquando me invisisse meraini 
duobus praealtis lapidibus, sibi invicem oppositis, quorum 
alter musco circumdatus erat, constabat. — Leemius de Lap- 
ponibus. 

X The Lapland women carry their infants at their back 
in a piece of excavated wood, which serves them for a 
cradle. Opposite to the infant's mouth there is a hole for 
it to breathe through. — Muandum prorsus est et vix credi- 
bile nisi cui vidisse contigit. Lapones liyeme iter facien- 
tes per vastos montes, perque horrida et invia tesqua, eo 
presertim tempore quo omnia perpetuis nivibus obtecta 
sunt et nives ventis agitantur et in gyros aguntur, viam ad 
destinata loca absque errore invenire posse, lactantem 
autem infantem si quem habeat, ipsa mater in dorso bajulat, 
in excavate ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant) quod pro cunis 
utuntur: in hoc infans pannis et pellibus convolutus coUi- 
gatus jacet. — Leemius de Lapponibus. 

9 



86 JUVENILE POEMS. 

He marks the streamy banners of the North, 

Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join 

Who there in floating robes of rosy light 

Dance sportively. For Fancy is the power 

That first unsensualizes the dark mind, 

Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell 

With wild activity ; and peopling air, 

By obscure fears of beings invisible, 

Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 

Of the present impulse, teaching self control. 

Till Superstition with unconscious hand 

Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain, 

Nor yet without permitted power impressed, 

I deem those legends terrible, with which 

The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng ; 

Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 

O'er slaughtered infants, or that giant bird 

Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 

Is tempest, when the unutterable* shape 

Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 

That shriek, which never murderer heard, and lived. 

Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 
Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed 
Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave 
By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguer'd, such 
As earth ne'er bred, nor air, nor the upper sea ; 
Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name 
With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath, 
And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, 
Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear 
Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast, 
The fateful word let slip the elements 



Jaibrae Aibr 



JUVENILE POEMS. 87 

And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her, 

Armed with Torngarsuck's* power, the Spirit of 

Good, 
Forces to unchain the foodfuf progeny 
Of the Ocean stream ;— thence through the realm of 

Souls, 
Where live the Innocent, as far from cares 
As from the storms and overwhelming waves 
That tumble on the surface of the Deep, 
Returns with far-heard pant, hotly pursued 
By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more. 
Ere by the frost foreclosed to repossess 
His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while 
In the dark tent within a cow'ring group 
Untenanted. — Wild phantasies ! yet wise, 
On the victorious goodness of high God 
Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope. 
Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 
With gradual steps, winning her difficult way, 
Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 

If there be beings of higher class than Man, 
I deem no nobler province they possess. 
Than by disposal of apt circumstance 
To rear up kingdoms ; and the deeds they prompt, 

* They call the Good Spirit Torngarsuck. The other 
great but malignant spirit is a nameless Female ; she 
dwells under the sea in a great house, where she can 
detain in captivity all the animals of the ocean by her 
magic power. When a dearth befalls the Greenlanders, 
an Angekok or magician must undertake a journey thither. 
He passes through the Kingdom of souls, over a horrible 
abyss into the Palace of this phantom, and by his enchant- 
ments causes the captive creatures to ascend directly to 
the surface of the ocean.— /See Crantz's History of Green- 
land, vol. i. 206. 



88 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Distinguishing from mortal agency, 

They choose their human ministers from such 

states 
As still the Epic sorfg half fears to name. 
Repelled from all the minstrelsies that strike 
The palace-roof and soothe the monarch's pride. 

And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words 
Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our faith) 
Held commune with that warrior-maid of France 
Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days, 
With Wisdom, mother of retired thoughts. 
Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark 
The good and evil thing, in human lore 
Undisciphned. For lowly was her birth, 
And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil, 
That pure from tyranny's least deed, herself 
Unfeared by fellow-natures, she might wait 
On the poor laboring man with kindly looks. 
And minister refreshment to the tired 
Way-wanderer, when along the rough hewn bench 
The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 
Vacantly Wcitched the rudely pictured board 
Which on the mulberry-bough with welcome creak 
Swuno- to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the 

'' Maid 
Learnt more than schools could teach : Man's shift- 

inof mind. 
His vices and his sorrows ! And full oft 
At tales of cruel wrong and strange distress 
Had wept and shivered. To the tottering eld 
Still as a daughter would she run : she placed 
His cold limbs at the sunny door, and loved 
To hear his story, in his garrulous sort. 
Of his eventful years, all come and gone. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 89 

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form. 
Active and tall, nor sloth nor luxury 
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad. 
Her flexile eyebrows wildly haired and low, 
And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed, 
Spake more than Woman's thought ; and all her 

face 
Was moulded to such features as declared 
That pity there had oft and strongly worked. 
And sometimes indignation. Bold her mien, 
And like a haughty huntress of the woods 
She moved : yet sure she was a gentle maid ! 
And in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say 
Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
Nor idly would have said — for she had lived 
In this bad World, as in a place of tombs, 
And touched not the pollutions of the dead. 

'Twas the cold season when the rustic's eye 
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints 
And clouds slow^ varying their huge imagery ; 
When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 
Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 
Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft. 
With dim inexplicable sympathies 
Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man's course 
To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent 
She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched 
The alien shine of unconcernino: stars, 
Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 
9* 



90 JUVENILE POEMS. 

Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown 

The winding sheep-track vale-ward : when, behold 

In the first entrance of the level road 

An unattended team ! The foremost horse 

Lay with stretched limbs ; the others, yet alive 

But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes 

Hoar with the frozen night dews. Dismally 

The dark-red dawn now glimmered ; but its gleams 

Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused, 

Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied. 

From the thwart wain at leno-th there reached her 

o 

ear 
A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd 
Distant : and feebly with slow effort pushed, 
A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 
The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire : 
Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time, 
Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
A mother and her children — lifeless all, 
Yet lovely ! not a lineament was marred — 
Death had put on so slumber-like a form ! 
It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe, 
The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips, 
Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 
Stretched on her bosom. 



Mutely questioning. 
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 
The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. 
She shuddered ; but, each vainer pang subdued. 
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 



JUVENILE POEMS 91 

The stiff cramped team forced homeward. There 

arrived, 
Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
And weeps and prays — but the numb power of 

Death 
Spread o'er his limbs ; and ere the noontide hour. 
The hovering spirits of his wife and babes 
Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs, 
With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
His voice had faltered out this simple tale. 

The village, where he dwelt a husbandman. 
By sudden inroad had been seized and fired 
Late on the y ester evening. With his wife 
And little ones he hurried his escape. 
They saw the neighboring hamlets flame, they heard 
Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 
Their evening hearth-fire ; for the alarm had spread. 
The air clipped keen, the night was fanged with 

frost. 
And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
111 hush'd her children's moans ; and still they 

moaned. 
Till flight and cold and hunger drank their life. 
They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas 

death. 
He only, lashing his o'erwearied team, 
Gained a sad respite, till beside the base 
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead. 
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food. 
He crept beneath the coverture, entranced, 
Till wakened by the maiden. — Such his tale. 



02 J U V E N I L E P (J E M S . 

Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffered, 
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
Brooded with moving hps, mute, startful, dark ! 
And now her flushed tumultuous features shot 
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
Of miser)^ fancy-crazed ! and now once more 
Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within 
The unquiet silence of confused thought 
And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 
Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
To the high hill-top tracing back her steps, 
Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones 
The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 
Unconscious of the driving element. 
Yea, swallow'd up in the ominous dream, she sate 
Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 
Breathed from her look ! and still with pant and sob, 
Inly she toiled to flee, and still subdued, 
Felt an inevitable Presence near. 

Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy, 
A horror of great darkness wrapt her round, 
And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones, 
Calming her soul, — " Thou of the Most High 
Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
Behold expectant 

[The following fragments were intended to form part 
of the Poem when finished.] 

" Maid beloved of Heaven, 
(To her the tutelary Power exclaimed) 
Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 
Thou seest; foul missionaries of foul sire. 
Fierce to regain the losses of that hour 



JUVENILE POEMS. 93 

When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings 
Over the abyss fluttered with such glad noise. 
As what time after long and pestful calms. 
With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
Poisonino[ the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 
Wakens the merchant-sail upiising. Night 
A heavy unimaginable moan 
Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 
Stand beauteous on confusion's charmed wave. 
Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound 
That leads with downward windings to the cave 
Of darkness palpable, desert of Death, 
Sank deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 
There many a dateless age the beldam lurked 
And trembled ; till, engendered by fierce Hate, 
Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose. 
Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of 

fire. 
It roused the Hell-Hag ; she the dew damp wiped 
From off" her brow, and through tlie uncouth maze 
Retraced her steps ; but ere she reached the mouth 
Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused. 
Nor dared re-enter the diminished Gulf, 
As throuo-h the dark vaults of some mouldered 

tower 
(Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind 
Circles at distance in his homeward way) 
The winds breathe hollow, deemed the plaining 

oToan 
Of prisoned spirits ; with such fearful voice 
Night murmured, and the sound through Chaos 

went. 
Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 
A dark behest they heard, and rushed on earth ; 



01 .1 U V E X [ L E V O E M S . 

Since that sad hour, in camps and courts adored. 
Rebels from God, and tyrants o'er Mankind !" 



From his obscure haunt 
Shrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly dam, 
Feverous yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow, 
As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds. 
Ague, the biform hag ! when early Spring 
Beams on the marsh-bred vapors. 



" Even so" (the exulting Maid said) 
" The sainted herald of good tidings fell, 
And thus they witnessed God ! But now the 

clouds 
Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing- 
Loud songs of triumph ! ye spirits of God, 
Hover around my mortal agonies !" 
She spake, and instantly faint melody 
Melts on her ear, soothinsf and sad, and slow. 
Such Measures as at calmest midnight heard 
By aged hermit in his holy dream. 
Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 
The white-robed* multitude of slauofhtered saints 



* Revelations, vi. 9. 11. And when he had opened the 
fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that 
were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony 
which they held. And white robes were given unto every 
one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should 
rest yet for a little season, until their fellow-servants also 
and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, 
should be fulfilled. 



JUVENlLErOEMS. 95 

At Heaven's wide-opened portals gratulant 
Receive some martyred patriot. The harmony- 
Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense 
Brief slumber seized, and confused ecstasy. 

At length awakening slow, she gazed around : • 
And through a mist, the relique of that trance 
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared. 
Its high, o'erhanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs, 
Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
Stretched opposite, where ever and anon 
The ploughman following sad his meagre team 
Turned up fresh skulls unstartled, and the bones 
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
All mingled lay beneath the common earth, 
Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the fields 
Stept a fair Form, repairing all she might, 
Her temples olive- wreathed; and where she trod, 
Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure, 
And anxious pleasure beamed in her faint eye, 
As she had newly left a couch of pain, 
Pale convalescent ! (yet some time to rule 
With power exclusive o'er the willing world, 
That blest prophetic mandate then fulfilled — 
Peace be on Eartli !) A happy while, but brief, 
She seemed to wander witli assiduous feet. 
And healed the recent harm of chill and blight, 
And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew. 

But soon a deep precursive sound moaned hollow : 
Black rose the clouds, and now (as in a dream) 
Their reddening shapes, transformed to warrior- 
hosts, 
Coursed o'er the skv, and battled in mid-air. 



96 J U V E N 1 L E 1' O E Al S . 

Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from heaven 

Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float. 

Like hideous features looming on the mist, 

Wan stains of ominous light ! Resigned, yet sad, 

The fair Form bowed her olive-crowned brow. 

Then o'er the plain with oft-reverted eye 

Fled till a place of tombs she reached, and there 

Within a ruined sepulchre obscure 

Found hiding-place. 

The delegated Maid 
Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones ex- 
claimed : — 
"Thoumild-eyedForm! wherefore, ah! wherefore fled ? 
The power of Justice like a name all light. 
Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. 
Ah! why, uninjured and unprofited 
Should multitudes against their brethren rush ? 
Why sow they guilt, still reaping misery? 
Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace ! are sweet, 
As after showers the perfumed gale of eve. 
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek ; 
And gay thy grassy altar piled with fruits. 
But boasts the shrine of demon War one charm, 
Save that with many an orgie strange and foul. 
Dancing around with interwoven arms. 
The maniac Suicide and giant Murder 
Exult in their fierce union ! I am sad. 
And know not why the simple peasants crowd 
Beneath the Chieftains' standard !" Thus the Maid. 

To her the tutelary Spirit said : 

" When luxury and lust's exhausted stores 

No more can rouse the appetites of kings ; 



JUVENILE POEMS. 97 

When the low flattery of their reptile lords 
Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear ; 
When eunuchs sing, and fools buffoonery make, 
And dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ; 
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts : 
Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
Insipid royalty's keen condiment! 
Therefore uninjured and unprofited 
(Victims at once and executioners). 
The congregated husbandmen lay waste 
The vineyard and the harvest. As along 
The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 
Though hushed the Avinds and cloudless the high 

noon. 
Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease. 
In sports unwieldy toss his island bulk, 
Ocean behind him billows, and before 
A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 
And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark. 
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
And War, his strained sinews knit anew. 
Still violate the unfinished works of Peace. 
But, yonder look ! for more demands thy view !" 
He said; and straightway from the opposite Isle 
A vapor sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled 
From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence. 
Travels the sky for many a trackless league. 
Till o'er some death-doomed land, distant in vain, 
It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the plain, 
Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose, 
And steered its course which way the vapor went. 

The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean. 
10 



98 JUVExNILE POEMS. 

But long time passed not, ere that brighter cloud 
Returned more bright ; along the plain it swept ; 
And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged 
A dazzling form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye, 
And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
Not more majestic stood the healing God, 
When from his bow the arrow sped that slew 
Huge Python. Shrieked Ambition's giant throng, 
And with them hissed the locust-fiends that crawled 
And glittered in Corruption's slimy track. 
Great was their wrath, for short they knew their 

reign : 
And such commotion made they, and uproar, 
As when the mad tornado bellows through 
The guilty islands of the western main. 
What time departing from their native shores, 
Eboe, or Koromantyn's* plain of palms, 

* The Slaves in the West Indies consider death as a pass- 
port to their native country. This sentiment is thus ex- 
pressed in the introduction to a Greek Prize-Ode on the 
Slave-Trade, of which the thoughts are better than the lan- 
guage in which tliey are conveyed. 

''Qi cTKorov TTvXas Qavare, trpoXeiTrcov 
'K; yivoi ffTTsvSois VTTO^Ev^Oiv "A.ra' 
Ov ^EViadliaTj yevioiv (nrapaynoXs, 



OiJ' 6\o\v 



yH 



'AXXa Kul kvkXokti -^opOlTiTfOKXl. 

'AXX' bnaJi 'eXevOepia. avvoiKels, 

Jlrvyvi Tvpavi's ! 

AaaKioig ettI irrepvyEacri ctj(n 
A ! ^aXajaiov KaOopoJvTEi o7S[ia 
^lOepoTrXdyKToii vtto iroaa dvcTat 

TlarpiJ' £n-' alav. 



J U V E N I L E r O E yi S . 99 

The infuriate spirits of the murdered make 
Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 
Warmed with new influence, the unwholesome plain 
Sent up its foulest fogs lo meet the morn : 
The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in blood ! 



" Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! 
(To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
Soon shall the morning struggle into day, 
The stormy morning into cloudless noon. 
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
But this be thy best omen — Save thy Country !" 
Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed. 
And with him disappeared the heavenly Vision. 

" Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
All conscious presence of the Universe ! 
Nature's vast ever-acting energy ! 
In will, in deed, impulse of All to All ! 



""EvOa [xdv Epao-at 'EpMiisprjaiv 
A//0i Trr)yriaip Kirpivoiv inr' aXacov, 
"Ocrff' vno BporoTs tiraQov 8poTol, ra 
Asiva \iyovTi. 



LITERAL TRANSLATION. 

Leaving the darkness, O Death ! hasten thou to a race 
yoked with misery ! Thou wilt not be received with 
lacerations of cheeks, nor with funeral ululation — but with 
circling dances and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible 
indeed, yet thou dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius. Borne 
on thy dark pinions over the swelling of Ocean, they return 
to their native country. There, by the side of fountains 
beneath citron-groves, the lovers tell to their beloved what 
horrors, being men, they had endured from men 



100 JUVENILE P U E x\I S . 

Whether thy Love with unrefracted ray 
Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
Diseasing reahns the enthusiast, wild of thought. 
Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng, 
Thou both inspiring, and predooming both. 
Fit instruments and best, of perfect end : 
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven !" 



And first a landscape rose 
More wild and waste and desolate than where 
The white bear, drifting on a field of ice, 
Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage 
And savage agony. 



0ibplliuc CcaDes 



I. POEMS 

OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS, 

OR FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords fvv ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 

I had, n.y country! Am I to be blamed? 

But, when I think of Thee, and what thou art, 

Vt^rily in the bottom of my heart, 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 

In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 

And I by my affection was beguiled. 

What wonder if a poet, now and then. 

Among the many movements of his mind, 

Felt for thte as a Lover or a Child. 

WORDSWORTH. 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.* 

lov, iov, w w KaKOi. 
'Ytt' av 111 Seivoi op^oiJiavTeias Trdvji 
TiTpo0eT, TapatTuuiv (ppoin'ioii (.(pnnioii- 

To [JiiWov t'l^Ei. Kai av //' ev rdx^i^ irapiiv 
"Ayav y d\r}ddiJLavriv oiKreipas ipeis- 

^scliyL Agam. 1225. 

ARGUMENT. 

The Ode commences with an address to the Divine 
Providence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the 

* This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th of December, 
1795, and was first published on the last day of that year 
10* 



102 S I B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 

events of time, however calamitous some of them may ap- 
pear to mortals. The second Strophe calls on men to sus- 
pend their private joys and sorrows, and devote them for 
a while to the cause of human nature in general. The 
first Epode speaks of the Empress of Russia, who died of 
an apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1796; having just 
concluded a subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined 
against France. The first and second Antistrophe describe 
the image of the Departing Year, &c., as in a vision. The 
second Epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit, the down- 
fall of this country. 



PIRIT who sweepest the wild harp of Time ! 

It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ; 
When lo! its folds far waving on the wind, 

1 saw the train of the departing Year ! 

Starting from my silent sadness 

Then with no unholy madness. 
Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his 
flight. 

II. 

Hither, from the recent tomb, 
From the prison's direr gloom. 
From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
And thence, where poverty doth waste and lan- 
guish ! 
Or where, his two bright torches blending. 

Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
Or where, o'er cradled infants bending, 
Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 103 

Hither, in perplexed dance, 
Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 

By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
Whose indefatigable sweep 
Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 
I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
From every private bower, 

And each domestic hearth. 
Haste for one solemn hour ; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice, 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth, 

Weep and rejoice ! 
Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 

And now advance in saintly jubilee. 
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 

III. 
I marked Ambition in his war-array ! 

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 
" Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress 

stay ! 
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ?" 
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace. 
No more on Murder's lurid face 
The imperial hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 
Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower. 
When human ruin choked the streams. 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 



104 S I 15 V L L I x\ E LEAVES. 

Spirits of the uncoffined slain, 

Sudden bUsts of triumph swelling, 
Oft at night in misty train, 

Rush around her narrow dwelling! 
The exterminating fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb ! 
Then with prophetic song relate. 
Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 



Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore, 
My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne. 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
With many an unimaginable groan 

Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued. 
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude, 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glo- 
ries shone. 
Then, his eye wild ardors glancing. 
From the choired gods advancing, 
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 

V. 

Throughout the blissful throng, 

Hushed were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven 

(The mystic Words of Heaven) 

Permissive signal make : 
The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread his vings 
and spake ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 105 

" Thou in stormy blackness throning 
Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! 
By peace with proffered insult scared, 
Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
By years of havoc yet unborn ! 
And hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared ! 
But chief by Afric's wrongs, 

Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
By what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies !' 
By wealth's insensate laugh ! by torture's howl !' 
Avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven, speak 
aloud ! 

And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 

dart the flash ! rise and deal the blow ! 
The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! 

Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
Rise, God of Nature ! rise." 



The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. 
And ever, when the dream of night 
Renews the phantom to my sight. 
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

My ears throb hot ; my eye -balls start 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 



106 S 1 B Y L L I xN E L E A V E S . 

And my thick and stiuggling breath 
Imitates the toil of death ! 
'No stranger agony confounds 

The soldier on the war-field spread, 
When all foredone with toil and wounds. 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled, 

And the night- wind clamors hoarse ! 
See ! the starting wretches head 

Lies pillowed on a brother's corse !) 

VII. 

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
Albion ! my mother Isle ! 
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, 
Glitter green with sunny showers : 
Thy grassy upland's gentle swells 

Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
And Ocean, mid his uproar wild. 
Speaks safety to his island-child. 

Hence for many a fearless age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
Nor ever proud invader's rage 
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with 
gore. 

VIII. 

Abandoned of Heaven ! mad avarice thy guide. 
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast 

stood. 
And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 107 

The nations curse thee ! They with eager wonder- 
ing 
Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream ! 
Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a 
dream 
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering 

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 
If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 
Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed 
sleep. 

IX. 

Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing — 
And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
Away, my soul, away ! 
I unpartaking of the evil thing, 
With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
Have wailed my country with a loud Lament. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 



108 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



FRANCE. 

AN ODE. 
I. 

Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 



YE 



Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 

Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that hsten to the night-birds singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope rechned. 
Save when your own imperious branches swinging, 

Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod. 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
By moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
ye loud Waves ! and ye Forests high ! 

And ye Clouds that far above me soared ! 
Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 

Yea, everything that is and will be free ! 

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 

With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

II. 
When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, 
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and 

sea, 
Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be 
free. 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 



SIB YLLl NE LEA VES. 109 

With what a joy my loft}^ gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
And when to whehn the disenchanted nation, 

Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
The Monarchs marched in evil day, 
And Britain joined the dire array ; 

Thouofh dear her shores and circlino- ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 

Had swoU'n the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and 

groves ; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. 
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, Liberty ! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; 

But blessed the pseans of delivered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

III. 
"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud 
scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 
Ye storms, that round the dawning east assem- 
bled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! 

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and 
bright ; 
When France her front deep-scarred and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; 
11 



110 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

When, insiipportably advancing-, 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp ; 

While timid looks of fury glancing, 
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal 
stamp, 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee : 
" And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her 

lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth 
their own." 



IV. 

Forgive me, Freedom ! forgive those dreams ! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 

From bleak Heh^etia's icy cavern sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain- snows 

With bleedinor wounds : foro-ive me, that I che- 
rished 
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 

To scatter rao-e, and traitorous gruilt. 

Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. 

And patriot onl}^ in pernicious toils, 
Ave these thy boasts. Champion of human kind? 



S I B Y L L I X E L E A V E S . Ill 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey : 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 

From freemen torn : to tempt and to betray ? 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain. 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
They burst their manacles and w^ear the name 

Of Fi-eedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions. 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the 
waves ! 
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-clifF's verofe. 
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze 
above. 
Had made one murmur wnth the distant surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, 
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 
Possessing all things with intensest love, 
Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 

February, 1797. 



113 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF 
AN INVASION. 

A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
All golden with the never bloomless furze. 
Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell, 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax, 
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve. 
The level sunshine glimmers with green hght. 
Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
Which all, raethinks, would love ; but chiefly he. 
The humble man, who, in his youthful years, 
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
His early manhood more securely wise ! 
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath. 
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen 
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best). 
And from the sun, and from the breezy air. 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts. 
Made up a meditative joy, and found 
Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, 
And dreaming hears thee still, singing-lark ; 
That sinorest like an ano-el in the clouds ! 

My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 113 

His soul in calmness, yet petforce must feel 

For all his human brethren — ray God ! 

It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 

What uproar and what strife may now be stirring 

This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 

Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, 

And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 

And undetermined conflict — even now. 

Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 

Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun ! 

We have offended. Oh ! my countrymen ! 

We have offended very grievously. 

And been most tyrannous. From east to west 

A groan of accusation j)ierces Heaven ! 

The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 

Countless and vehement, the sons of God, 

Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on. 

Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence. 

Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 

And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 

With slow perdition murders the whole man, 

His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 

All individual dignity and power 

Engulfed in courts, committees, institutions. 

Associations and societies, 

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild. 

One benefit-club for mutual flattery, 

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace. 

Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 

Contemptuous of all honorable rule, 

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 

Of Christian promise, words that even yet 

11* 



\ 
114 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 

Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim 

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 

Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 

To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 

Oh ! blasphemous ! the book of life is made 

A superstitious instrument, on which 

We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 

For all must swear — all and in every place, 

College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 

Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, 

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 

All, all make up one scheme of perjury, 

That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 

Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy, 

Foi-th from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 

(Portentous sight !) the owlet Atheism, 

Sailincr on obscene winojs athwart the noon. 

Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 

And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 

Cries out, ''Wher is it?" 

Thankless too for peace 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas), 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
Alas ! for ao^es io^norant of all 
Its ghastlier Avorkings (famine or blue plague. 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows), 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES 115 

Anticipative of a wrong uiifelt, 
No speculation or contingency, 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth 
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names. 
And adjurations of the God in Heaven) 
We send our mandates for the certain death 
Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and 

girls, 
And women, that would groan to see a child 
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 
The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
And technical in victories and defeats, 
And all our dainty terms for fratricide , 
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch, 
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 
Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed ! 
As though he had no wife to pine for him. 
No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
Are coming on us, O my countrymen ! 
And what if all-avenging Providence, 
Strong and retributive, should make us know 
The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
The desolation and the agony 
Of our fierce doing-s ! 



116 SIBYLLIXE LEAVES. 

Spare us yet awhile, 
Father and God ! ! spare us yet awhile. 
Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burden of their babes. 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laughed at the breast ! Sons,, brothers, husbands, 

all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure ! 
Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race. 
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Render them back upon the insulted ocean, 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 
Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 

I have told, 
O Britons ! my brethren ! I have told 
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them, 
Who, playing tricks wath conscience, dare not look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 



S I B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 117 

Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike. 

Groaning with restless enmity, expect 

All change from change of constituted power ; 

As if a Government had been a robe, 

On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged 

Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 

Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 

A radical causation to a few 

Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 

Who borrow all their hues and qualities 

From our own folly and rank wickedness. 

Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, 

meanwhile, 
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images, 
And yield them worship, they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deemed — 
But, dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
A husband, and a father ! who revere 
All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
O native Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and 

holy 
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
All adoration of the God in nature. 
All lovely and all honorable things, 



118 SIB YLLINE LEAVES. 

Whatever makes tliis mortal spiiit feel 
The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
There lives nor form nor feeling in ni}^ soul 
Unborrowed from my country. divine 
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. 
Loving the God that made me ! 

May my fears, 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
In this low dell, bowled not the delicate grass. 

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze ; 
The light has left the summit of the hill, 
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
Farewell, awhile, soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
Homeward I wdnd my way ; and lo ! recalled 
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surrounded nook, 
Phis burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
And elmy fields, seems like society 
Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 



S I B V L L I N B LEAVES. 119 

And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge 

elms 
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
And my babe's mother dwe.l in peace ! With light 
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Remembering thee, green and silent dell ! 
And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
And solitary musings, all my heart 
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge 
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 

Nether Stowev, April 2Sth, 1798. 



FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 

A WAR ECLOGUE. 
WITH AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE.* 

7^he Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendee. Famine is dis- 
covered lying on the ground; to her enter Fire and 
Slaughter. 

Famine. Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 

Slaughter. \to Fire.] I will whisper it in her ear. 

Fire. No ! no ! no ! 

Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 

No ! no ! no ! 
Myself I named him once below, 
And all the souls that damned be, 
Leaped up at once in anarchy. 
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
They no longer heeded me ; 

*" Printed at tlie end of the volume. 



120 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 

No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
'Twill make a holiday in Hell ! 

Fara. Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
In a dark hint, soft and slow. 

Slau. Letters four do form his name — 
And who sent you ? 

Both. The same ! the same ! 

Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, 
And I have drunk the blood since then 
Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 

Both. Who bade you do it ? 

Slau. The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 

Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have bled, 
Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 
With bones and skulls I made a rattle, 
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
And the homeless dog — but they would not go. 
So off I flew: for how could I bear 
To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 
I heard a groan and a peevish squall, 
And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
Can you guess what I saw there ? 

Both. Whisper it, sister ! in our ear. 

Fam. A baby beat it's dying mother: 
I had starved the one and was starving the other ! 

Both. Who bade you do't ? 

Fam. The same ! the same ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 121 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To liira alone the praise is due. 

Fire. Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 
And all the while the work was done, 
On as I strode with my huge strides, 
I flung back my head and I held my sides. 
It was so rare a piece of fun 
To see the sweltered cattle run 
With uncouth gallop through the night. 
Scared by the red and noisy light ! 
By the light of his own blazing cot 
Was many a naked rebel shot : 
The house -stream met the flame and hissed, 
While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist. 
On some of those old bed-rid nurses. 
That deal in discontent and curses. 

Both. Who bade you do't ? 

Fire. The same ; the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 

All. He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
How shall we yield him honor due ? 

Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, 
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
They shall seize him and his brood — 

Slau. They shall tear him limb from limb! 

Fire. thankless beldames and untrue ! 
And is this all that you can do 
For him who did so much for you ? 
12 



122 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
Hath richly catered for you both ; 
And in an hour would you repay 
An eight years' work ? — Away ! away ! 
I alone am faithful ! I 
Cling to him everlastingly. 



1796. 



II. LOVE POEMS. 

Quas huniilis tenero stylus olim effudit in aevo, 

Perlegis hie lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta 

Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus. 

Omnia paulatim consumit longior astas, 

Vivendoque simul moriniur, rapimurque maneudo. 

Ipse mihi coUatus enim non ille videbor: 

Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago, 

Voxqne aliud sonat — 

Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes, 

Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus 

Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum. 

Petkarch. 

LOVE. 

A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
Mv own dear Genevieve! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 123 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my hiy, 
Amid the hno^erino- Ho-ht. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I plaj^ed a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and. moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace : 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondlv on her face ! 



124 SI BYLLIx\E LEAVES. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Kniglit, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel, beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage w^orse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; — 

And how she wept and clasped his knees; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness wenc away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 125 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long 1 

She wept with pity and dehght, 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside. 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



12'' 



126 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



IMTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE 
DARK LADIE. 

r\ LEAVE the lily on its stem ; 

O leave the rose upon the spray ; 
leave the elder bloom, fair maids ! 

And listen to my lay. 

A cypress and a myrtle- bough 
This morn around my harp you twined, 
Because it fashioned mournfully 
Its murmurs in the wind. 

And now a tale of love and woe, 
A woful tale of love I sing : 
Hark, gentle maiden ! hark, it sighs 
And trembles on the string. 

But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
It sighs and trembles most for thee ! 
come and hear the cruel wrongs. 
Befell the Dark Ladie !* 

And now once more, a tale of woe, 
A woful tale of love I sing ; 
For thee, my Genevieve, it sighs. 
And trembles on the string. 

* Here followed the stauzas, afterwards published sepa- 
rately under the title " Love," (see this vol. p. 122,) and 
after them came the other three stanzas printed above 'j 
the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark 
Ladie, of which all that exists is to be found at p. 127.— 
Late Ed. 



S I B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 127 

When last I sang the cru(*l scorn, 
That crazed this bold and lovely knight, 
And how he roamed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day or niofht : 

I promised thee a sister tale, 
Of man's perfidious cruelty ; 
Come, then, and hear what cruel wronor 

o 

Befell the Dark Ladie. 



THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. 

A FRAGMENT 

"DENEATH yon birch with silver bark, 
And boughs so pendulous and fair, 

The brook falls scattered down the rock. 
And all is mossy there ! 

And there upon the moss she sits. 
The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
The heavy tear is in her eye, 

And drops and swells again. 

Three times she sends her little page 
Up the castled mountain's breast. 
If he might find the Knight that wears 
The Griffin for his crest. 

The sun was sloping down the sky. 
And she had lingered there all day. 
Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
O ! wherefore can he stay ? 



128 SI BYLLIiSE LEAVES. 

She hears a rustiing o'er ihe brook. 
She sees far oif a. swinging bough ! 
*''Tis he! 'Tis my betrothed Knight! 
Lord Falkland, it is Thou !" 

She sprmgs, slie clasps him round the neck, 
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears ; 
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
She quenches with lier tears. 



"My friends with rude ungentle words 
They scoff and bid me fly to thee 1 

give me shelter in thy breast ! 

shield and shelter me ! 

"My Henr)^ I have given thee much, 

1 gave what I can ne'er recall, 

I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 
Heaven ! I gave thee all !" 

The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
While to his heart he held her hand, 
"Nine castles hath my noble sire. 
None statelier in the land : 

"The fairest one shall be my love's, 
The fairest castle of the nine ! 
Wait only till the stars peep out, 
The fairest shall be thine 

"Wait only till the hand of eve 
Hath wholly closed yon western bars, 
And through the dark we two will steal 
Beneath the twinkling stars !" — 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 129 

-' The dark ? the dark ? No ! not the dark ? 
The twinkling stars ! How, Henry ? How ? 
O God ! 'twas in the eye of noon 
He pledged his sacred vow ! 

And in the eye of noon, my love 
Shall lead me from my mother's door. 
Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
Strewing flow'rs before : 

But first the nodding minstrels go 
With music meet for lordly bowers. 
The children next in snow-white vests, 
Strevvinor buds and flowers ! 

o 

And then my love and I shall pace, 
My jet black hair in pearly braids. 
Between our comely bachelors 
And blushino- bridal maids !" 



LEWTI, 

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT. 

A T midnight by the stream I roved, 
To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far. 



130 8 1 13 V L L i N E L E A \ E S . 

The rock half slieltered from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. 
Gleaming through her sable hair, 

Imao-e of Lewd! from my mind 

o 

Depart; for Lewti is not kind. 
I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
With floating colors not a few, 

Till it reached the moon at last : 
Then the cloud was wholly bright. 
With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek. 

And with such joy I find my Lewti: 
And even so my pale, wan cheek, 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind. 
If Lewti never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it floats away, 

Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay ; 
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray — 

Away it passes from the moon ! 
How mournfully it seems to fly, 

Ever fading more and more. 
To joyless regions of the sky — 

And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be. 

When Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
A dying man for love of thee. 
Nay, treacherous image! leave my miad- 
And yet, thou did'st not look unkind. 



SIBYL L I N E LEAVES. 131 

I saw a vapor in the sky, 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud ; 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above. 
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
'N'ay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever ; 

Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river swans have heard my tread. 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 

beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure, 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day, and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lev/ti lies. 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine boAver, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyrinth to thread, 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my sight, 



1^ SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

As these two swans together heave 
On the gently swelhng wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 

And dreamt that I had died for care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem, 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 



1795. 



THE PICTURE; 

OR THE lover's RESOLUTION. 

^HROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted un- 
derwood 
I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen. 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil 
I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy. 
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, 
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate or guide ! The master-passion quelled, 
I feel that I am free. With dun -red bark 
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, 
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 133 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remoi-se : 

Here too the lov^e-lorn man, who, sick in soul, 

And of this busy human heart aweary, 

Worships the spirit of unconscious life 

In tre-e or wild flower. — Gentle lunatic ! 

If so he might not wholly cease to be. 

He would far rather not be that, he is ; 

But would be something, that he knows not of. 

In winds or waters, or among the rocks. 

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion 
here ! 
]S"o myrtle-walks are these : tliese are no groves 
Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn 
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, ye Njanphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
You, ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow-bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, 
Now pant and murmur with her feeling lamb. 
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
His little Godship, making him perforce 
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 

This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
With my own fancies play the merry fool. 



134 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And laugh away worse folly, being free 

Here will I seat myself, beside this old, 

Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine 

Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch my 

limbs. 
Close by this river, in this silent shade, 
As safe and sacred from the step of man 
As an invisible world — unheaid, vmseen, 
And listening only to the pebbly brook 
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound; 
Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk 
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me, 
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 
The tendril linglets from the maiden's brow, 
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth. 
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing 

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
Liftest the feathei's of the robin's breast. 
That swells its little breast, so full of song, 
Sinffincc above me on the mountain ash. 
And thou too, desert stream ! no pool of thine. 
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, 
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, 
The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, 
That leans towards its mirror ! Who erewhile 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 135 

Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 

stealth, 
(For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now 
With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain. 
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, 
But not unheeded gazed ! for see, ah ! see. 
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells ; 
And suddenly, as one that toys with time, 
Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm 
Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile. 
Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st Hft up thine eyes ! 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold 
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there, 
And there the half-uprooted tree — but where 
O where the virgin's snowy arm that leaned 
On its bare branch ? He turns and she is gone ! 
Homeward she steals through many a woodland 

maze 
Whicli he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, 
The Njiiad of the mirror ! 



138 S I B Y L L I N E LEAVES. 

Not to thee, 

wild and desert stream! belongs this tale : 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, 
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : 

Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild 
stream ! 

This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 

1 rise and trace its devious course. lead. 
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs, 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
Dart off asunder with an angry sound. 

How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet, 
Each in the other lost and found : and see 
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 
Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye ! 
With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, 
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 
Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 
Of deep enjoyment, following Love's brief feuds ; 
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
I pass forth into light — I find myself 
Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods). 
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 
The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills 
Fold in behind each other, and so make 
A pircular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 



S I B Y L L 1 N E L E A V E S . 137 

With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages, 

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet 

The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 

Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 

How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 

Swings in its winnow ; all the air is calm. 

The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with 

light, 
Rises in columns ; from this house alone, 
Close by the waterfall, the column slants. 
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? 
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke. 
And close beside its porch a sleeping child. 
His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand 
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. 
A curious picture, with a master's haste — 
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin. 
Peeled from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries 
Her pencil ! See the juice is scarcely dried 
On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ! 
And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch — 
The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 
For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun. 
Slanting at eve, rest blight, and linger long 
Upon thy purple bells ! Isabel ! 
Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 
More beautiful than whom Alcteus wooed — 
The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
child of genius ! stately, beautiful. 
And full of love to all, save only me. 
And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 
13^^ 



138 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 

On to her father's house. She is alone ! 

The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 

And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 

Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 

To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 

The picture in my hand which she has left ; 

She cannot blame me that I followed her : 

And I may be her -uide the long wood througu. 



THE NIGHT SCENE: 

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

Sandoval. 

"\rOU loved the daughter of Don Manrique ? 

Earl Henry. Loved? 

Sandoval. Did 3-011 not say you wooed her ? 

Earl Henry. Once I loved 

Her whom I dared not woo ! 

Sandoval. And wooed, perchance, 

One whom you loved not ! 

Earl Henry. Oh ! I were most base 

Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her, 
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
Met my advances with impassioned pride, 
Tlifti kindled love with love. And when her sire. 
Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 
My suit with insult, and in memory 
Of ancient feuds, poured curses on my head, 
Her blessino-s overtook and baffled them ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 139 

But tliou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 

Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
But Oropeza — 

Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her ! 
Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. — 
The night ere my departure to the army. 
She, nothing trembling, led me through that 

gloom, 
And to that covert by a silent stream, 
Which, with one star reflected near its marge, 
Was the sole object visible around me. 
No leaflet stirred ; the air was almost sultry ; 
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
No leaflet stirred ; — yet pleasure hung upon 
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
A little further on an arbor stood, 
Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led 

me. 
To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled — 
I heard her heart beat — if 'twere not my own. 
Saiidoval, A rude and scaring note, my friend ! 
Earl Henry. Oh ! no ! 

I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy. 
The stars above our heads were dim and steady. 
Like eyes suS'used with rapture. — Life was in us : 



140 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

We were all life, each atom of our frames 

A living soul — I vowed to die for her ; 

With the faint voice of one who, having spoken. 

Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it ; 

That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 

A murmur breathed against a lady's ear. 

Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure. 

Deep self-possession, an intense repose. 

Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other 
than as eastern sages paint. 

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, 

Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking, 

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble. 

Relapses into bliss. 

Uarl Henry. Ah ! was that bliss 

Feared as an alien, and too vast for man ? 

For suddenly, impatient of its silence, 

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 

I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on 
them. 

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice : — 
*' Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ?" 
I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed 
The purpose and the substance of my being, 
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. — 
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
Unw^avering love, and singleness of heart. 
Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her — 
Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. — 

\Earl Henry retires into the wood.] 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 141 

Sandoval \alone\. O Henry ! always stiiv'st thou 
to be great 
By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
But by the inspiration of great passion. 
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise np 
And shape themselves ; from earth to heaven they 

stand, 
As though they were the pillars of a temple, 
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! 
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
Is fled ; the mighty columns were but sand, 
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, 

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF 
HER INNOCENCE. 

lyTYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped, 
^-*- Finest in the gladsome ray. 
Soiled beneath the common tread. 
Far from thy protecting spray ! 

When the partridge o'er the sheaf 
Whirred along the yellow vale. 

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf ! 
Love the daUiance of the gale. 

Lightly didst thou, fooHsh thing ! 

Heave and flutter to his sighs. 
While the flatterer, on his wing, 

Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 

Gaily from thy mother-stalk 

Wert thou danced and wafted high — 

Soon on this unsheltered walk 
Flung to fade, to rot, and die. 



142 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN 

AT THE THEATRE. 

IVTAIDEN, that with sullen brow 

Sitt'st behind those virgins gay. 
Like a scorched and mildewed bough, 
Leafless, 'mid the blooms of May ! 

Him who lured thee and forsook. 
Oft I watched with angry gaze, 

Fearful saw his pleading look. 
Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 

Soft the glances of the youth, 

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; 

But no sound like simple truth. 
But no true love in his eye. 

Loathing thy polluted lot, 

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, 

With a wiser innocence. 

Thou hast known deceit and folly, 
Thou hast felt that vice is woe : 

With a musing melancholy. 
Inly armed, go, Maiden ! go. 

Mother sage of self-dominion. 
Firm thy steps, Melancholy! 

The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
Is the memory of past folly. 

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn. 

While she moults the firstling plumes, 
That had skimmed the tender corn. 

Or the beanfield's odorous blooms. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 143 

Soon with renovated wing 

Shall she dare a loftier flight, 
Upward to the day-star spring, 

And embathe in heavenly light. 



LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 

"IVrOR cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy 
throng, 
Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
To melt at Natui-e's passion-warbled plaint ; 

But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain 
Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment. 

Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! 

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, 
While the pert captain, or the primmer priest. 
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 

O give me, from tliis heartless scene released, 
To hear our old musician, blind and grey 

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed). 
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play, 

By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night. 
The while I dance amid the tedded hay 

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 

Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
Of the calm glassy lake, O let me hide 
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder- trees. 



144 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 

But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers. 
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow, 

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe. 
Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead, 

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees 
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves. 
Or where the stiff" grass mid the heath-plant waves. 

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 



THE KEEPSAKE. 

'T^HE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, 
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark. 
Or mountain-finch aliirhtino;. And the rose 
(In vain the darling of successful love) 
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years. 
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road- side. 
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 145 

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !* 
So will not fade the flowers which Erameline 
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I 

loved), 
And, more beloved than tliey, her auburn hair. 

In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, 
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, 
Making a quiet image of disquiet 
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
There, in that bower where first she owned her love. 
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
From oft' her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd 
The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
Her own dear name, with her own auburn-hair ! 
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look. 
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood 
Has made me wish to steal away and weep), 
I^or yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
With which she promised, that when spring returned. 
She would resign one half of that dear name, 
And own henceforth no other name but mine. 

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) 
of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to 
twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow 
eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Ger- 
many (Vergissmein niclit), and I believe, in Denmark and 
Sweden. 

1 I 



146 SIBYLLINE LEAVES 



TO A LADY. 

WITH falconer's "SHIPWRECK." 

A H ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, 
"^ In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; 
Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams, 
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood, 

On clifif, or cataract, in Alpine dell ; 
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, 

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ; 

Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings, 
And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity, hark ! 

Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, 
Now groans, and shivers the replunging bark ! 

*' Cling to the shrouds !" In vain ! The breakers 
roar — 

Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan 
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 

No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man ! 

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, 
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? 

The elevating thought of suffei'ed pains, 

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the 



Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend, 

Or absent or no more ! shades of the Past, 

Which Love makes substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
O dear as long as life and memory last ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 147 

I send with deep regards of heart and head. 

Sweet maid, for friendship formed ! this work to 
thee : 

And thou, the while thou canst not clioose but shed 
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. 

"Y^/'HY need I say, Louisa dear ! 

How glad I am to see you here, 

A lovely convalescent ; 
Risen from the bed of pain and fear. 

And feverish heat incessant. 

The sunny showers, the dappled sky. 
The little birds that warble high, 
• Their vernal loves commencing, 
Will better welcome you than I 
With their sweet influencing. 

Believe me, while in bed you lay. 
Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter ! 
Each eye looked up and seemed to say. 

How can we do without her ? 

Besides, wnat vexed us worse, we knew. 
They have no need of such as you 

In the place where you were going : 
This World has angels all too few. 

And Heaven is overflowinof ! 



148 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY 
NATURAL. 

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 

TF I had but two little wings, 
And were a little feathery bird, 
To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things, 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always with you in my sleep ! 
The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not though a monarch bids : 

So I love to wake ere break of day : 

For though my sleep be gone, 

Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's hds, 

And still dreams on. 



HOMESICK. 

WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 

'nniS sweet to him, who all the week 

Through city crowds must push his way, 
To stroll alone through fields and woods. 
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. 

And sweet it is, in summer bower. 

Sincere, affectionate, and gay, 
One's own dear children, feasting round. 

To celebrate one's marriage-day. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 149 

But what is all to his delight, 

Who having long been doomed to roam. 
Throws off the bundle from his back, 

Before the door of his own home ? 

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; 

This feel I hourly more and more : 
There's healing only in thy wings, 

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore ! 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

"PjO you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, 

the dove, 
The linnet and thrush say, " I love and I love !" 
In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong. 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song, 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 

weather. 
And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he : 
**I love my Love, and my Love loves me!" 



A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. 

Tj^RE on my bed my limbs I lay, 

God grant me grace my prayers to say ; 
O God ! preserve my mother dear 
In strength and health for many a year ; 
14* 



150 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And ! preserve my father too, 
And may I pay him reverence due ; 
And may I my best thoughts employ 
To be my parents' hope and joy ; 
And, ! preserve my brothers both 
From evil doings and from sloth, 
And may we always love each other. 
Our friends, our father, and our mother : 
And still, Lord, to me impart 
An innocent and grateful heart, 
That after my last sleep I may 
Awake to thy eternal day ! Amen. 



THE VISIONARY HOPE 

Q AD lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling 
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast. 
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing. 
That his sick body might have ease and rest ; 
He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
Against his will the stifling load revealing. 
Though Nature forced ; though like some captive 

guest, 
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 
An alien's restless mood but half concealing. 
The sternness on his gentle brow confessed. 
Sickness within and miserable feeling : 
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams. 
And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain. 
Each night was scattered by its own loud screams : 
Yet never could his heart command, though fain, 
One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 151 

That Hope, which was his inward bhss and boast. 
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, 
Though changed in nature, wander where he would — 
For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost ! 
For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, 
He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
(So the love-stricken visionary deems) 
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower. 
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noontide bower ! 
Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 



THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 

QFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee 
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 

A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life. 
Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 

A puise of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 

With happiness beyond desert. 
The gladness half requests to weep ! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense. 

And unalarming turbulence 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 

And into tenderness soon dying, 



152 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
Resign the soul to love again ; — 

A more precipitated vein 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 

And leave their sweeter understrain 
Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
I. 
TTOW warm this woodland wild Recess ! 
Love surely hath been breathing he re 
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress. 
As if to have you yet more near. 

II. 

Eight springs have flown since last I lay- 
On seaw^ard Quantock's heathy hills, 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float here and there, like things astray, 
And high o'er head the sky -lark shrills. 

III. 

No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? 

That sense of promise everywhere ? 
Beloved ! flew your spirit by? 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 153 

IV. 

As wlien a mother dotli explore 

The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 

As whom I long had loved before — 
So deeply had I been beguiled. 

V. 

You stood before me like a thought, 
A dream remembered in a dream. 
But when those meek eyes first did seem 

To tell me. Love within you wrought — 
Greta, dear domestic stream ! 

VI. 

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 
Has not Love's whisper evermore 
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 

Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
Dear under-sono* in clamor's hour. 



ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, 

AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL 
RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE. 

/^OD be with thee, gladsome Ocean ! 

How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
Ships, and waves, and ceaseless motion. 
And men rejoicing on thy shore. 

Dissuading spake the mild physician, 

" Those briny waves for thee are death !" 

But my soul fulfilled her mission, 

And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath ! 



154 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

« 

Fashion's pining sons and daughters. 
That seek the crowd they seem to fly, 

Trembling they approach thy waters ; 
And what cares Nature, if they die? 

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
A thousand recollections bland, 

Thoughts sublime, and stately measures. 
Revisit on thy echoing strand : 

Dreams (the soul herself forsaking). 
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 

Silent adorations, making 

A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 

ye hopes, that stir within me. 

Health comes with you from above ! 

God is with me, God is in me ! 
I cannot die, if Life be Love. 



THE EXCHANGE. 

"XTt/'E pledged our hearts, my love and I,- 

I in my arms the maiden clasping ; 
I could not tell the reason wh5% 
But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. 

Her father^s love she bade me gain; 

I went, and shook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man — in vain ! 

We had exchanofed our hearts indeed. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 155 



III. MEDITATIVE POEMS. 

IN BLANK VERSE . 

Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived, 
Who seeks a Heart in the unthinking ]\Ian. 
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life 
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead 
Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth. 
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure 
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul 
Warmeth the inner frame. schiller. 

HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, 

IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have 
their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous 
torrents rush down its sides ; and witliin a few paces of 
the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense num- 
bers with its " flowers of loveliest blue." 

TTAST tliou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In his steep course? So long he seems to 
pause 
On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought ; entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 



156 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Yet, like some sv^^eet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy 
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul, not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale ! 
struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ; 
Companion of the morning star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald ; wake, wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks, 
For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasino- thunder, and eternal foam ? 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 157 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers. 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow streams with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye hving flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, play- mates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye ho'htnincrs, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
15 



158 S 1 B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM 

AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST. 

T STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and 

saw 
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 
A surging scene, and only limited 
By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, 
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral 

forms 
Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard. 
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound ; 
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, 
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 
From many a note of many a waterfall, 
And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
Sate, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 

* The highest mouutaiu in the Hartz, and indeed in 
North Germany. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES 159 

In low and languid mood ;'* for I had found 

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 

Their finer influence from the Life within ; 

Fair cyphers else ; fair, but of import vague 

Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 

History or prophecy of friend, or child, 

Or gentle maid, our first and early love 

Or father, or the venerable name 

Of our adored country ! thou Queen, 

Thou Delegated Deity of Earth, 

dear, dear England ! how my longing ej^e 

Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 

Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 

My native Land ! 
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud. 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears ; that all the view 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills. 
Floated away, like a departing dream. 
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt. 
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
That God is everywhere ! the God who framed 
Mankind to be one mighty family. 
Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 



* When I have gazed 

Fi'om some high eniinen''e on goodly vales, 

And cots and villages embowered below, 

The ihought would rise that all to me was strange 

Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 

"Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. 

Southei/s Hymntothe Penates. 



16© SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 



ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOiAT 

ON THE FIRST OT FEBRUARY, 179G. 

CWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet 

stem 
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth- chattering 

Month 
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee 
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknoAvn polar cave, 
E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. 
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth 
Nipped by consumption mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
An amarantli, which Earth scarce seemed to own, 
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope. 
Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud ? 
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
Weavino: in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
From anxious self, Life's cruel task-master ! 
And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize 
The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 

* Chattertou. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 161 

THE EOLIAN HARP. 

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 

lYl Y pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved 

myrtle, 
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
Snatched from yon bean-field ! and the w^orld so 

hushed ! 
The stilly murmur of the distant sea 
Tells us of silence. 

And that simplest lute, 
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
How by the desultory breeze caressed, 
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! 
O the one life within us and abroad, 
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul. 



162 S 1 B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where- 
Methinks, it should have been impossible 
Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumberinoj on her instrument. 

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
And many idle flitting phantasies. 
Traverse my indolent and passive brain, 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed. 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak of him, 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 163 

The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
I praise him, and with Faith th;it inly feels : 
Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
A sinful and most miserable man, 
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid ! 



REFLECTIONS 

ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT. 

Sermoui propiora — hor, 

T OW was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 

Peeped at the chamber-window. We could 
hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossomed ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmins twined ; the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen ; me thought, it calmed 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feelings : for he paused, and looked 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again, 
And sighed, and said it was a Blessed Place. 
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 



104 SIBYLLIJNE LEAVES. 

Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 

I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girll 

The inobtrusive song of happiness, 

Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 

When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hushed, 

And the heart listens !" 

But the time, when first 
From that low dell, steep up .the stony mount 
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak mount. 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep 
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields. 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed. 
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood. 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city -spire ; 
The Channel there, the Islands and white sails, 
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless 

Ocean — 
It seemed hke Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
Had built him there a temple ; the whole World 
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference. 
No wish profaned m}^ overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 

Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and mount sublime ! 
I was constrained to quit you. Was it right. 
While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled. 
That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that fi"om some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 



SIBYL LIxNE LEAVES. 16{1 

And he that works me good with unmoved face, 

Does it but half ; he chills me while he aids, 

My benefactor, not my brother man ! 

Yet even this, this cold beneficence, 

Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou scann'si 

The sluggard Pity's vision- weaving tribe ! 

Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 

Nursing in some delicious solitude 

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand. 

Active and firm, to fio-ht the bloodless fio-ht 

Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 

Yet oft when after honorable toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream. 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose, 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy kingdom come ! 



TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE,^ 

OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON. 

WITH SOME POEMS. 

Notus in fratres animi paterni— Hor. Carm. lib. 1. 2. 

BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed 
His youth and early manhood in the stir 
And turmoil of the woild, retreats at length. 
With cares that move, not agitate the heart, 
To the same dwellinii- where his fatlier dwelt; 



A 



166 8 1BYLLlx\E LEAVES. 

And haply views his tottering httle ones 
Embrace those aged knees and chmb that lap, 
On which first kneeling his own infancy 
Lisped its brief prayer. Such, my earhest 

Friend ! 
Tliy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
At distance did ye climb life's upland road, 
Yet cheered and cheering ; now fraternal love 
Hath drawai you to one centre. Be your days 
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 

To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
\. different fortune and more different mind — 
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light 
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life 
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 
Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills ; 
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
Kuffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
Dropped the collected shower ; and some most 

false. 
False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, 
Have tempted, me to slumber in their shade 
E'en mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps, 
Mixed their own venom Avith the rain from Heaven, 
That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
Permanent shelter ; and beside one friend, 
Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, 
I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
Of husband and of father ; not unhearing 
Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 167 

Which from my cliildhood to maturer years 
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
Briorht with no fading^ colors ! 



Yet at times 
My soul is sad, that I have roamed through hfe 
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart 
At mine own home and birth-place : chiefly then, 
When I remember thee, my earliest friend ! 
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth 
Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye : 
And boding evil yet still hoping good, 
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
Sorrowed in silence ! He who counts alone 
The beatings of the solitary heart, 
That being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 
Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee ! 
Oh ! 'tis to me an ever new delight 
To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, 
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
Or when as now, on some delicious eve ; 
We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot 
Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward ; whose old 

boughs, 
That hang above us in an ai-borous roof, 
Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours. 
When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear 
To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
Or that sad wisdom follv leaves behind. 



168 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times. 
Cope with the tempest's swell ! 

These various strains, 
Which I have framed in many a various mood, 
Accept, my brother ! and (for some perchance 
Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
If autJ-ht of error or intemperate truth 
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 



T 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. 

HIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 
Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long un- 
harmed 
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 
The small round basin, which this jutting stone 
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the 

Spring, 
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 
Send up cold waters to the traveller 
With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance. 
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page. 
As merry and no taller, dances still. 
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 
Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 1G9 

Drink, Pilgrim, here ; Here rest! and if tliy heart 
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
Thy Spirit, hstening to some gentle sound, 
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees J 



A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 

'HP IS true, Idoloclastes Satyrane! 

(So call him, for so mingling blame with 
praise, 
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, 
Maskmg his birth-name, wont to character 
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths, 
And honoring with religious love the great 
Of elder times, he hated to excess, 
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
The hollow puppets of a hollow age. 
Ever idolatrous, and chanofino- ever 
Its worthless idols ! learning, power, and time, 
(Too much of all) thus wasting with vain war 
Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, 
Whole years of v/eary days, besieged him close. 
Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm. 
And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
The citadel unconquered, and in joy 
Was stronor to follow the delio-htful Muse. 

o o 

For not a hidden path, that to the shades 
Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads. 
Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill 
There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 
But he had traced it upward to its source, 
16 



170 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, 
Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled 
Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 
Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 
The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, 
He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
Of odorous lamps, tended b}' Saint and Sage. 
O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
O studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 
Philosopher! contemning wealth and death, 
Yet docile, child-like, full of Life and Love ! 
Here, rather than on monumental stone, 
This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes. 
Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 



THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. 

In the Jane of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid 
a visit to the author's cottage ; and ou the morning of their 
arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from 
walking during the whole time of their stay. One eve- 
ning, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed 
the following lines in the garden-bower. 

X/U'ELL, they are gone, and here must I remain, 

This lime-tree bower my prison ! I have lost 
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance, even when age 
Had dimmed mine eyes to bhndness ! They, mean- 
while. 
Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 
On sprinofy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 



S I B Y L L I x\ E L E A V E S . 171 

The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 
And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock 
Flings arching like a bridge; — that branchless ash, 
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still. 
Fanned by the waterfall ! and there my friends 
Behold the dark green file of long, lank weeds,* 
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edo-e 
Of the blue clay-stone. 



Now, my friends emerge 
Beneath the wide wide Heaven ; and view ao-ain 
The many-steepled tract magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, 
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad, 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
And hungered after Nature, many a year. 
In the great City pent, winning thy way 
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun ! 
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 
Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 



* Of long, lank weeds ] The asplenium scolopendrium call- 
ed, ill some countries, the Adder's Tongue, in others, the 
Hart's Tongue; but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue 
as the triviul name of the opk?i^loss!/»i (july. 



172 S I B V L L 1 X E L E A V E S . 

And kindle, tliou blue ocean! So my Friend 
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood. 
Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes 
Spirits perceive his presence. 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower. 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ! and I watched 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
Dapphng its sunshine ! And that walnut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
Those fronting: elms, and now, with blackest mass 
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
Through the late twilight ; and though now the 

bat 
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters. 
Yet still the solitary humble bee 
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 

o 

That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, 
No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
'Tis well to be bereft of promised good. 
That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 173 

My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory. 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still 
*Flew creaking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 



TO A FRIEND 

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING 
NO MORE POETRY. 

"T^EAR Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, 

I ween 
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 
Hight Castalie : and (sureties of thy faith) 
That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 
And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 
The world's low cares and lying vanities, 
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 
And washed and sanctified to Poesy. 
Yes — thou w^ert plunged, but with forgetful hand 
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son ; 

*F/eiv creaking. Some months after I bad written this 
line, it gave me pleasure to find that Bartram had observed 
tVie same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. " When 
these birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are 
slow, moderate, and regular ; and even when at a conside- 
rable distance, or high above us, we plainly hear the quill- 
feathers; their shafts and webs upon one another creak as 
the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea." 
16* 



174 S I n Y L L I N E LEA V E S . 

And witli those recreant iinbaptized heels 

Thou'rt flying from thy bounden minist'ries — 

So sore it seems and burthensome a task 

To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed ! 

For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy, 

And I have arrows,* mystically dipt. 

Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ? 

And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth 

" Without the meed of one melodious tear?" 

Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard, 

Who to the " Illustrious! of his native Land 

So properly did look for patronage." 

Ghost of Maecenas ! hide thy blushing face ! 

They snatched him from the sickle and the plough — 

To gauge ale-firkins. 

Oh ! for shame, return ! 
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, 
There stands a lone and melancholy tree. 
Whose aged branches to the midnight blast 
Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough, 
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew he exhaled 
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb. 
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, 
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers 
Of nightshade, or its red and tempting fruit, 
These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility. 

1796. 

" Find. Olymp. ii. ]. 150. 

t Verbatim fi-om Burns' dedication of his Poem to the 
Nobility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. 



SIBYLLIxNE LEAVES. 175 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A 
POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND. 

Tj^RIEND of the wise ! and teacher of the good ! 

Into my heart have I received that lay 
More than liistoric, that prophetic lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
Of the foundations and the building up 
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 
What may be told, to the understanding mind 
Revealable : and what within the mind 
By vital breathings secret as the soul 
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 

Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) 
Of tides obedient to external force, 
And currents self-determined, as might seem. 
Or by some inner power ; of moments awful, 
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul 

received 
The light reflected, as a light bestowed 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ! 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams. 
The guides and the companions of thy way ! 



176 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and man beloved as man, 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
For thou wert there, thine ow^n brows garlanded, 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 
When from the general heart of human kind 
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 

So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure 

From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self. 

With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 

Far on — herself a glory to behold, 

The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 

Of Duty, chosen laws controUing choice. 

Action and joy ! — An Orphic song indeed, 

A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 

To their own music chanted ! 

great Bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
Have all one age, and from one visible space 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act 
Are permanent, and Time is not with them. 
Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old. 
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 177 

Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn, 
The pulses of my being beat anew ; 
And even as life returns upon the drowned 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart; 
And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope ; 
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain. 
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild. 
And all which patient toil had reared, and all, 
Commune with thee had opened out — but flowers 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me. 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, 
Singing of glory, and futurity. 
To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
Strewed before thy advancing ! 

Nor do thou, 
^Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour 
Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
By pity or grief, already felt too long ! 
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
The tumult rose and ceased ; for peace is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, 



178 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following^ eve, 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
And more desired, more precious for thy song. 
In silence listening, like a devout child. 
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
With momentary stars of ray own birth, 
Fair, constellated foam,* still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, 
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. 

And when — Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
Thy long sustained Song finally closed, 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
That happy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 

* "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary in- 
tervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and 
little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it ; 
and every now and then light detachments of this white 
cloud-like foam darted otFfrom the vessel's side, each with 
its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out 
of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness." — Biogrd- 
phia Literaria, p. 197 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 179 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

A CONVERSATION POEM. APRIL, 1798. 

"jVTO cloud, no relique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 
But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently, 
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim. 
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
" Most musical, most melancholy " bird !* 
A melancholy bird ! Oh ! idle thought ! 
In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night- wandering man whose heart was 

pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrono-, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him- 
self, 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he. 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 

" Most musical, most melancholy^ This passage in 
Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere 
description. It is spoken in the character of the melan- 
choly man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The 
author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the 
charge of having alluded with levity, to a line in Milton. 



180 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And many a poet echoes the conceit : 
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretched his hmbs 
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality, 
A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved hke Nature ! But 'twill not be so . 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore ; we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chaunt, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 



SIBYLLIxNE LEAVES. 181 

But never elsewhere in one place I knew 

So many nightingales ; and far and near, 

In wood and thicket, over the white grove, 

They answer and provoke each other's song, 

With skirmish and capiicious passagings, 

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 

And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 

Stirringf the air with such a harmonv, 

That should you close your eyes, you might almost 

Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes. 

Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 

You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 

Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and 

full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their 

notes, 
That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossom twi;^- still swinging from the breeze, 
L7 



182 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And to that motion tune his wanton song 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ! 
Full fain it would delay me 1 My dear babe, 
Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well 
The evenino^-star ! and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream — ) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, 
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once. 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
While his fair eyes, that swam with vmdropped 

tears, 
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy, — Once more, farewell, 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! fare- 
well, 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 183 

FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 

n"^HE frost performs its secret ministry, 

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings ; save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
*Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 
This populous village ! sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings on of life. 
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
Making it a companionable form, 
Wuose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself. 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But ! how oft. 
How oft at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 



184 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

With a wild pleasure falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 
And so I brooded all the following mom. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
Save if the door half-opened, and I snatched 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
But still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 185 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve-drops 

fall 
Heard only in the trances of the blast. 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 



THE THREE GRAVES. 

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON's TALE. 

[The Author has pubhshed the following humble frag- 
ment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more 
than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The lan- 
guage was intended to be dramatic ; that is, suited to the 
narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of 
the diction. It is therefore pi-esented as the fragment, not 
of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale. Whether this is 
sufficieiit to justify the adoption of such a style, in any 
metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author 
is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented 
as poetiy, and it is in no way connected with the Author's 
judgment concerning poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are 
exclusively psychological. The story which must be 
supposed to have been narrated in the first and second 
parts is as follows. 

Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen 
her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, 
which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, 
and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he an- 
nounces his hopes and intentions to Mary's mother, a 

17* 



186 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from 
constant health, the possession of a competent property, 
and from having had no other children but Mary and an- 
other daughter (the father died in their infancy), retaining, 
for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeli- 
ness of appearance ; but a woman of low education and 
violent temper The answer which she at once returned 
to Edward's application was remarkable — " Well, Edward! 
you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my 
daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under 
the mother's eye ; and, in fine, she became herself ena- 
mored of her future son-iu-law, and practised every art, 
both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affec- 
tions from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the 
Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though 
the author has purposely altered the names and the scene 
of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties 
and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, 
though perplexed by her strange detractions from her 
daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own 
heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly 
affection ; she at length overcome by her miserable pas- 
sion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tenden- 
cies, exclaimed with violent emotion — " O Edward ! indeed, 
indeed, she is not fit for yctu — she has not a heart to love 
you as you deserve. It is I that love you ! Marry me, 
Edward ! and I will this very day settle all my property 
on you." The Lover's eyes were now opened ; and thus 
taken by sui'prise, whether from the effect of the horror 
which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous 
system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the 
guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and 
absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of 
laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman 
fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a 
scream, she prayed for a curse both on him and on her 
own child. Mary happened to be in the room directly 
above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's 
blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the 
fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her 
off to Ellen's home ; and after some fruitless attempts on 



S I B Y L L I N E L E A V E S . 187 

her part towards a reconciliation with her mother, she was 
marrieJ to him. And here the third part of the Tale be- 
gins. 

I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to 
tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time 
that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve 
years ago. I was less averse to such subjects than at pre- 
sent), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible 
effect on the imagination, from an Idea violently and sud- 
denly impressed on it. 1 had been reading Bryan Ed- 
wards' account of the effect of the Oby witchcraft on the 
Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interest- 
ing anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the 
Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their 
power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to 
those works for the passages alluded to) and I conceived 
the design of showing that instances of this kind are not 
peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating 
the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and 
the process and symptoms of the morbid action on the 
fancy from the beginning. 

The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, 
in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity 
had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, 
close by each other, to two only of which there were 
grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and 
dates, as usual : on the second, no name, but only a date^ 
and the words, " The Mercy of God is infinite."] 

1818. 



nPHE grapes upon the Vicar's wall 

Were ripe as ripe could be ; 
And yellow leaves in sun and wind 
Were falling from the tree. 

On the hedge -elms in the narrow lane 
Still swung the spikes of corn : 

Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
Young Edward's marriage-morn. 



188 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Up, tliroui^^b that wood behind the church, 
There leads from Edward's door 

A mossy track, all over boughed, 
For half a mile or more. 

And from their house-door by that track 
The bride and bride-groom went; 

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, 
Seemed cheerful and content. 

But when they to the church-yard came, 

I've heard poor Mary say, 
As soon as she stepped into the sun. 

Her heart it died away. 

And when the Vicar joined their hands. 
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 

But when they prayed, she thought she saw 
Her mother on her knees 

And o'er the church-path they returned — 

I saw poor Mary's back. 
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 

Into the mossy track. 

Her foot upon the mossy track 

The married maiden set : 
That moment — I have heard her say — 

She wished she could forget. 

The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat- 
Then came a chill like death : 

And when the merry bells rang out, 
They seemed to stop her breath. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 189 

Beneath the foulest mother's curse 

No child could ever thrive ; 
A mother is a mother still, 

The holiest thing alive. 

So five months passed : the mother still 

Would never heal the strife ; 
But Edward was a loving man, 

And Mary a fond wife. 

* My sister may not visit us, 
My mother says her nay ; 

Edward ! you are all to me, 

1 wish for your sake I could be 

More lifesome and more gay. 

'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed 

I know I have no reason ! 
Perhaps I am not well in health. 

And 'tis a gloomy season." 

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 

And on the few fine days 
She stirred not out lest she miffht meet 

Her mother in the ways. 

But Ellen, spite of miry ways 

And weather dark and dreary, 
Trudged every day to Edward's house. 

And made them all more cheery. 

Oh ! Ellen was a faithful friend. 

More dear than any sister ! 
As cheerful too as sino-inof lark : 
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark. 

And then they alwciys missed her. 



190 SIBYLLINE LEAVES 

And now Asli-Wednesday came — that day 

But few to church repair: 
For on that day you know we read 

The Comraination prayer. 

Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 

Once, Sir, he said to me, 
He wished that service was clean out 

Of our good liturgy. 

The mother walked into the church — 

To Ellen's seat she went : 
Though Ellen always kept her church 

All church-days during Lent. 

And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
With courteous looks and mild : 

Thought she, " What if her heart should melt. 
And all be reconciled !" 

The day was scarcely like a day — 
The clouds were black outright : 

And many a night, with half a moon, 
I've seen the church more light. 

The wind was wild ; against the glass 

The rain did beat and bicker : 
The church -tower swinging over head. 

You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 

And then and there the mother knelt. 
And audibly she cried — 
** Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 
This woman by my side ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 191 

'0 hear me, hear me, Lord m Heaven, 
Although you take my hfe — 

curse this woman, at whose house 
Young Edward woo'd his wife. 

By night and day, in bed and bower, 

let her cursed be !" 
So having prayed, steady and slow, 

She rose up from her knee. 
And left the church, nor e'er again 

The church-door entered she. 

1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still, 

So pale, I guessed not why : 
When she stood up, there plainly was 
A trouble in her eye. 

And when the prayers were done, we all 
Came round and asked her why : 

Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 
A trouble in her eye. 

But ere she from the church-door stepped 

She smiled and told us why : 
It was a wicked woman's curse," 

Quoth she, " and what care I ?" 

She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 

Ere from the door she stept — 
But all agree it would have been 

Much better had she wept. 

And if her heart was not at ease, 

This was her constant cry — 
It was a wicked woman's curse — 

God's £rood, and what care I?" 



192 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

There was a hurry in her looks, 
Her struggles she redoubled : 
'*It was a wicked woman's curse, 
And why should I be troubled ?" 

These tears will come — I dandled her 
When 'twas the merest fairy — 

Good creature, and she hid it all : 
She told it not to Mary. 

But Mary heard the tale : her arms 
Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 
"0 Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, 
And now she hath cursed you!" 

I saw young Edward by himself 

Stalk fast adown the lee, 
He snatched a stick from every fence, 

A twig from every tree. 

He snapped them still with hand or knee. 

And then away they flew ! 
As if with his uneasy limbs 

He knew not what to do ! 

You see, good sir ! that single hill ? 

His farm lies underneath : 
He heard it there, he heard it all, 

And only gnashed his teeth. 

Now Ellen was a darling love 

In all his joys and cares, 
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
Fast-linked they both together came, 

Whene'er he said his prayers. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 193 

And in the moment of his prayers 

He loved them both ahke : 
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 

Upon his heart did strike ! 

He reached his home, and by his looks 

They saw his inward strife : 
And they clung round him with their arms. 

Both Ellen and his wife. 

And Mary could not check her tears, 

So on his breast she bowed ; 
Then frenzy melted into grief. 

And Edward wept aloud. 

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 

But closelier did she cling, 
And turned her face, and looked as if 

She saw some fricjhtful thinor. 



THE THREE GRAVES. 

PART IV. 

n^O see a man tread over graves 

I hold it no good mark : 
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon. 
And bad luck in the dark ! 

You see that grave ? The Lord he gives. 

The Lord he takes away : 
Sir ! the child of my old age 

Lies there as cold as clay. 
18 



194 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Except that grave, you scarce see one 

That was not dug by me ; 
I'd rather dance upon 'em all 

Than tread upon these three ! 

Ay, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale." 

You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
This month I'm in my seventieth year, 

And still it makes me sad. 

And Mary's sister told it me, 
For three good hours and more ; 

Though I had heard it, in the main. 
From Edward's self before. 

Well ! it passed off ! the gentle Ellen 

Did well-nigh dote on Mary ; 
And she went oftener than before, 
And Mary loved her more and more : 
She managed all the dairy. 

To market she on market-days. 
To church on Sundays came ; 

All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir ! 
But all was not the same ! 

Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 

But she was seldom cheerful ; 
And Edward looked as if he thought 

That Ellen's mirth was fearful 

When by herself, she to herself 
Must sing some merry rhyme ; 

She could not now be glad for hours. 
Yet silent all the time. 



S 1 B V L L I N E LEAVES. 195 

And when slie soothed her friend, through all 

Her soothing words 'twas plain 
She had a sore grief of her own, 

A haunting in her brain. 

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin ! 

And then her wrist she spanned ; 
And once when Mary was down-cast, 

She took her by the hand, 
And gazed upon her, and at first 

She gently pressed her hand ; 

Then harder, till her grasp at length 

Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
Alas ! said she, we ne'er can be 

Made happy by compulsion ! 

And once her both arms suddenly 

Round Mary's neck she flung, 
And her heart panted, and she felt 

The words upon her tongue. 

She felt them coming, but no power 

Had she the words to smother ; 
And with a kind of shriek she cried, 

" Christ ! you're like your mother !" 

So gentle Ellen now no more 

Could make this sad house cheery ; 

And Mary's melancholy ways 
Drove Edward wild and dreary. 

Lingering he raised his latch at eve. 

Though tired in heart and limb : 
He loved no other place, and yet 

Home was no home to him. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

One evening he took up a book, 

And nothing in it read ; 
Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 

" Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead." 

Mary looked up into his face, 

And nothing to him said ; 
She tried to smile, and on his arm 

Mournfully leaned her head. 

And he burst into tears, and fell 

Upon his knees in prayer : 
** Her heart is broke ! God ! my grief 

It is to great too bear !" 

'Twas such a foggy time as makes 

Old sextons. Sir ! like me, 
Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 

Was late uncommonly. 

And then the hot days, all at once. 
They came, we knew not how : 

You looked about for shade, when scarce 
A leaf was on a bough. 

It happened then ('twas in the bower 

A furlong up the wood : 
Perhaps you know the place, and yet 

I scarce know how you should, — ) 

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 

To any pasture -plot : 
But clustered near the chattering brook, 

Lone hollies marked the spot. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 197 

Those hollies of themselves a shape 

As of an arbor took, 
A close, round arbor ; and it stands 

Not three strides from a brook. 

Within this arbor, which was still 

With scarlet berries hung, 
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn 

Just as the first bell rung. 

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once. 

Deep in a woody dell. 

His limbs along the moss, his head 

Upon a mossy heap. 
With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
That brook e'en on a working day 

Might chatter one to sleep. 

And he had passed a restless night, 

And was not well in health : 
The women sat down by his side, 

And talked as 'twere by stealth. 

'• The sun peeps through the close thick leaves. 

See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, 

No bigger than your ee ; 

A tiny sun, and it has got 

A perfect glory too ; 
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, 
Make up a glory, gay and bright, 

Round that small orb, so blue." 
18* 



198 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And then they argued of those rays, 

What color they might be ; 
Says this, ''They're mostly green ;" says that, 

" They're amber-like to me." 

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 

Were troubling Edward's rest : 
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 

And the thumping in his breast. 

"A mother too!" these self-same words 
Did Edward mutter plain ; 
His face was drawn back on itself 
With horror and huge pain. 

Both groaned at once, for both knew well 
What thoughts were in his mind ; 

When he waked up, and started, hke one 
That hath been just struck blind. 

lie sat upright ; and ere the dream 
Had had time to depart, 
**0 God, forgive me! (he exclaimed) 
I have torn out her heart." 

Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 

Into ungentle laughter ; 
And Mary shivered, where she sat. 

And never she smiled after. 

Carmen reliquum in futumm tempus relegatum. To- 
morrow ! and To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 199 

IV. ODES 

AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



DEJECTION: AN ODE. 

Latk, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
"With the old Moon in her arms; 
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCB. 



"VTyELL! if the Bard was weather-wise who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, 

Which better far were mute. 
For lo ! the New-moon winter bright ! 
And overspread with phantom light, 
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling. 
And the slant night-shower driving loud and 
fast ! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they 
awed, 
And sent my soul abroad, 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 
live ! 



200 iS I 13 V L L I X B L EAVES. 

ir. 
A giief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, uiiimpassioned grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In AYord, or sio-h, or tear — 

Lad 3^ ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
To otlier thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
Have I been gazing on the western sky, 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that o-lide behind them or between, 
Now sparkhng, now bedimmed, but always seen : 
Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 

III. 

My genial spirits fail : 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 

It were a vain endeavor, 

Thousfh I should o-^ze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the west: 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 

IV. 

Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does nature live : 
Ours is her weddina^-o-arment, ours her shroud ! 
And would we auoht behold, of higher worth, 



S I B Y L L I X E L E A V E S . 201 

Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 

Ah ! from the soul i'self must issue forth, 
A light, a glor}^ a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 

V. 

O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
Save to tlie pure, and in their purest hour, 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud 

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. 

All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colois a suffusion from that lio-ht. 



vr. 



There was a time when, though my path was rough, 
This joy within me dallied with distress. 

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: 

For hope grew round me like the twining vine. 

And fruits, and foliage, not mv own, seemed mine. 



202 fc5 1 B i J. L 1 -\ E 1. E A V E fc) . 

But now afflictions bow me doAvn to earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirtli, 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 

My shaping- spirit of Imagination, 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can: 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
Till that whij^h suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 



Hence, viper thoughts, tliat coil around my mind, 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthened out. 
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest 
without, 

Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove w^hither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers. 
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 

* Tami is a small lake, generally, if not always applied 
to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders 
of those in the valleys. This address to the Stormwind 
will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at 
nii^ht, and in a mountainous country. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 203 

Thou miglity Poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
wounds — 
At once they groan Nvith pain, and shudder with the 

cold ! 
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is 
over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
loud! 
A tale of less affright, 
And tempered with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
'Tis of a httle child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 
mother hear. 

VIII. 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth. 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth ! 
With light heart may slie rise, 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice, 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
Their liff^ the eddvino- of lier living soul ! 



204 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

simple spirit, guided from above, 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 



ODE TO GEORGIANA, 

DUCHESS or DEVONSHIRE, ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH 
STANZA IN HER "PASSAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD.'* 

"And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild' 
Where Tell directed the avenging dart, 
With well strung ann, that flrst preserved his child, 
Then aimed the arrow at the tyrant's heart." 

CPLENDOR'S fondly fostered child ! 
And did you hail the platform wild. 

Where once the Austrian fell 

Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence learned you that heroic measure ? 

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran^ 
From all that teaches brotherhood to Man 
Far, far removed ! from want, from hope, from fear ! 
Enchanting music lulled your infant ear. 
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart 

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, 
With many a bright obtrusive form of art, 

Detained your eye from nature ; stately vests, 
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine. 
Rich viands and the pleasurable wine, 
Were yours unearned by toil ; nor could you see 
The unenjoying toiler's misery. 
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
You hailed the chapel and the platform wild, 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 20 

Where once the Austrian fell 

Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, 
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure ? 

There crowd your finely-fibred frame 

All living faculties of bliss ; 
And Genius to your cradle came, 
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame. 
And bending low, with godlike kiss 
Breath'd in a more celestial life ; 
But boasts not many a fair compeer, 

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear ? 
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife. 
Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
Yet these delight to celebrate 
Laurelled war and plumy state ; 
Or in verse and music dress 
Tales of rustic happiness — 
Pernicious tales ! insidious strains ! 
That steel the rich man's breast, 
And mock the lot unblest, 
The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
Which evermore must be 
The doom of ignorance and penury ! 
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child. 
You hailed the chapel and the platform wild, 
Whei-e once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure ? 

You were a mother ! That most holy name 
AVhirh Heaven and Nature bless, 
19 



203 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

I may not vilely prostitute to those 

Whose infants owe them less 
Than the poor caterpillar owes 
Its gaudy parent fly. 
You were a mother ! at your bosom fed 

The babes that loved you. You, with laughing 
eye, 
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read. 
Which you yourself created. Oh ! delight ! 
A second time to be a mother. 

Without the mother's bitter groans : 
Another thought, and yet another, 
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
O'er the growing sense to roll, 
The mother of your infant's soul ! 
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 

His chariot-planet round the goal of day. 
All trembling gazes on the eye of God, 

A moment turned his awful face away ; 
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet 

New influences in your being rose. 
Blest intuitions and communions fleet 

With living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see 
The shrine of social Liberty ! 
beautiful ! Nature's child ! 
'Twas thence you hailed the platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, 
Thence learn'd you that heroic measure, 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 2Q7 

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 

^RANQUILLITY ! thou better name 
Than all the family of Fame ! 

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 

For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 

To thee I gave ray early youth, 
And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. 
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom, Power divine, 
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope 
And dire remembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle nand will lead 
At morning through the accustomed mead; 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
And when the gust of Autumn crowds. 
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds. 
Thou best the thought canst raise, tho heart attune. 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 

The feeling heart, the searching sou]. 
To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
And while within myself I trace 
The greatness of some future nice. 



'^08 S 1 B \ L L i N E L E A V E S . 

Aloof, with lie]-mit-eye I scan 
The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE 
AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. 

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, 
But a green mountain variously up-piled, 
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, 
Or colored lichens with slow oozing weep ; 

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; 
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash ; 

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be- 
guiled, 
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ; 

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
That rustling on the bushy cliff above, 
With melancholy bleat of anxious love, 

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb : 

Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 
E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness — ' 
How more than sweet, if some dear friend sho\dd 
bless 

The adventurous toil, and up tiie path sublime 
Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round. 
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound ! 

then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark 
The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 209 

Seated at ease, on some saiootli mossy rock ; 
In social silence now, and now to unlock 
The treasured heart ; arm linked in friendly arm, 
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
MuttcMing brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag ; 

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, • 
And from the forehead of the topmost crag 

Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears 
That shadowing pine its old romantic Hrabs, 

Which latest shall detain the enamored sight 
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims. 

Tinged yellow wiih the rich departing light ; 

And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, 
A beauteous spring, tlie rock's collected tears. 
Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 

Together thus the world's vain turmoil left. 
Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine. 

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, 
Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine 
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, 
While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed : 

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the 
mount. 
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale. 
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss 
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss ! 

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore. 
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ; 
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place. 
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ; 
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod. 
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 

10* 



210 S 1 B Y L L INK LEAVES. 

Low murmuring, V^j ; and starting from the rocks 
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading fohage mocks 
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frost of age. 
And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
O meek retiring spirit ! we will climb, 
Cheerino; and cheered, this lovely hill sublime; 

And from the stirring world up-lifted high, 
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind. 
To quiet musings shall attune the mind, 

And oft the melancholy theme supply) 

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, 
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame. 
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, 

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole : 
Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth. 

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, 
Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. 
They whom I love shall love thee, honored youth ! 

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright ! 



LINES TO W. L. 

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL's MUSIC. 

"V/yHILE my young cheek retains its healthful 
hues. 

And I have many friends who hold me dear ; 

L ! methinks, I would not often hear 

Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
And if at death's dread moment I should lie 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 211 

With no beloved face at my bed-side, 
To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel- 
guide, 
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by. 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 



ADDRESSED TO 

A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE, 

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND 
CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY. 

XTENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe, 

Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 
To plundered Want's half-sheltered hovel go, 

Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear 

Moan haply in a dying mother's ear : 
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
O'er the rank church -yard with sear elm-leaves 

strewed. 
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 

Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs 
The flocking flesh-birds screamed ! Then, while thy 
heart 

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims. 
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 
What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 

O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resigned. 
All eff'ortless thou leave life's common-weal 

A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. 



212 SIBYLLINE LEAVES 



SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. 

~r\EAR native brook ! wild streamlet of the West ! 
How many various -fated years have past, 

What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
T skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 

I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, 
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes. 
Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On my 
way 

Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 

Ah ! could I be once more a careless child ! 



SONNET. 

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD', THE AUTHOR 
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE GE THE BIRTH 
OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796. 

/^FT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
Which makes the present (while the flash doth 
last) 
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past. 
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul 
Self-questioned in her sleep ; and some have said* 

* ^H*/ TOW {ificiv h ^^X^ t^plv iv TwJs TM dvSpoinivio eiSsi yevia^ai 
— Plat, in Phcedon. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 213 

We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. 

my sweet baby ! when I reach my door, 
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead 
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear), 
I think that I should strus^orle to believe 

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
Did'st moan, then spring to meet Heaven's quick 
reprieve, 

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 



SONNET. 



TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED HOW I FELT WHEN THE 
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 

/^HARLES ! my slow heart was only sad, when 
first 

I scanned that face of feeble infancy ! 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 

All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 

And hanging at her bosom (she the while 

Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm 
Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 

Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 

I seemed to see an angel form appear — 
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 

So for the mother's sake the child was dear. 
And dearer was the mother for the child. 



214 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. 

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN, IN A ROft 
CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. 

T^ORMI, Jesu ! Mater ridet 

Quae tarn dulcem somnum videt, 

Dormi, Jesu ! bland ule ! 
Si non dormis, Mater plorat. 
Inter fila cantans orat, 

Blande, veni, somnule. 

ENGLISH. 

OLEEP, sweet babe! my cares beguiling; 
Mother sits beside thee smiling ; 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 
Singing as her wheel she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmily ! 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

TTS balmy lips the infant blest 

Relaxing from its mother's breast, 
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
Of innocent satiety ! 

And such my infant's latest sigh ! 
O tell, rude stone ! the passer by. 
That here a pretty babe doth lie, 
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 215 

MELANCHOLY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

CTRETCHED on a mouldered Abbey's broadest 
^ waW, 

Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep — 
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall. 
Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep. 
The fern was pressed beneath her hair. 
The dark green adder's tongue was there; 
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'er her cheek. 

That pallid cheek was flushed : her eager look 
Beamed eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought, 

Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook, 
And her bent forehead worked with troubled 
thought. 
Strange was the dream 



TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG. 
I. 

lyTARK this holy chapel well ! 
^-^ The birth-place, this, of William Tell. 
Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 

II. 
Here, first, an infant to her breast, 
Him his loving mother prest ; 



216 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

And kissed the babe, and blessed the day. 
And prayed as mothers use to pray. 

III. 
** Vouchsafe him health, O God! ani^give 
The child thy servant still to live !" 
But God had destined to do more 
Through him than through an armed power. 

IV. 

God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 

A spirit to his rocks akin, 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein ! 



To Nature and to Holy Writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft 
His soul found wings, and soared aloft ! 



The straining oar and chamois chase 
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace 
On wave and wind the boy would toss, 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 



He knew not that his chosen hand, 
Made strong by God, his native land 
Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
Of Slavery — the which he broke ! 



SIB YLLliNE LEAVES. 217 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



^"PHE shepherds went their hasty way, 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 

And now they checked their eager tread, 
For to the Babe that at her bosom clung, 
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 

II. 
They told her how a gloiious light, 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
Had shone around, suspending night! 
Blest Mother ! thou shalt sing the song 
The Heavens sang : — Messiah's birth ! 
Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 

III. 
She listened to the tale divine. 

And closer still the Babe she prest ; 
And while she cried, the Babe is mine! 
The milk rushed faster to her breast ; 
Joy rose within her, li!i;e a summer's morn ; 
Peace, Peaxje on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. 

IV. 

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
That strife should vanish, battle cease, 
why should this thy soul elate ? 
Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, — • 
Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory ? 
20 



218 SI BYLLIxNE LEAVES. 

V. 

And is not War a youthful king, 

A stately hero clad in mail ? 
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 
Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold bright 

eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 

VI. 

"Tell this in some more courtly scene, 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean, 
And therefore is my soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled. 
That from the aged father tears his child ! 



"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
He kills the sire and starves the son ; 
The husband kills, and from her board 
Steals all his widovr's toil had won ; 
Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. 

VIII. 

"Then wisely is my soul elate. 

That strife should vanish, battle cease : 
I'm poor and of a low estate, 

The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is 
born," 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 219 



HUMAN LIFE. 

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. 

TF dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
As summer-guests, of sudden birth and doom, 

Whose sound and motion not alone declare, 
But are their whole of being ! If the breath 

Be life itself, and not its task and tent, 
If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 

Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 

Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase. 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause. 

She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
Blank accident ! nothing's anomaly ! 

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state. 
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, 
The counter- weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. 
And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood ? 

Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices. 

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf. 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 

These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? 
Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
Thou hast no reason why ! Thou can'st have none ; 
Thy being's being is a contradiction. 



220 SIBYLLKNE LEAVES. 

MOLES. 

— They shrink in, as Moles 
(Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the 

ground) 
Creep back from Light — then listen for its sound; 
See but to dread, and dread they know not why — 
'Jlie natural alien of their negative eye. 



THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. 



w 



EVER, believe me, 
Appear the Immortals, 
Never alone : 
Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus ! but in came boy Cupid the smiler : 
Lo ! Phoebus the iny^lorious descends from his 

throne ! 
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
With divinities fills my 
Terrestrial hall ! 

How shall I yield you 
Due entertainment, 
Celestial quire ? 
Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of up- 

buoyance. 
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of 

joyance, 
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
Hah ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my 
soul ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 221 

O give me the nectar ! 
fill me the bowl! 
Give him the nectar ! 
Pour out for the poet, 
Hebe ! pour free ! 
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, 
That Styx the detested no more he may view, 
And like one of us gods may conceit him to be ! 
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it ! lo Paean, I cry ! 
The wine of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die ! 



ELEGY, 

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK-VERSE 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

IVTEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, 

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound. 
Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed : 
humbly press that consecrated ground ! 

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 

And there his spirit most delights to rove : 
Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain, 

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide. 
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume. 

His manhood blossomed : till the faithless pride 
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! 

Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale, 
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view. 

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. 
20* 



222 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, 
Amid the pomp of affluence she pined ; 

Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms 
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 

Go, Traveller ! tell the tale with sorrow fraught : 
Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth. 

May hold it in remembrance ; and be taught 
That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth. 



SEPARATION. 

A SWORDED man whose trade is blood, 

In grief, in anger, and in fear, 
Through jungle, swamp, and torrent flood, 
I seek the wealth you hold so dear ! 

The dazzling charm of outward form, 
The power of gold, the pride of birth, 

Have taken Woman's heart by storm — 
Usurp'd the place of inward worth. 

Is not true Love of higher price 

Than outward Form, though fair to see. 

Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice. 
Or echo of proud ancestry ? — 

! Asra, Asra ! could'st thou see 

Into the bottom of my heart, 
There's such a mine of Love for thee. 

As almost might supply desert ! 

(This separation is, alas ! 

Too great a punishment to bear ; 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 223 

O ! take my life, or let me pass 

That life, that happy life with her !) 

The perils, erst with steadfast eye 
Encounter'd, now I shrink to see — • 

Oh ! I have heart enough to die, 

Not half enough to part from Thee !* 



ON TAKING LEAVE OF , 1817. 

nnO know, to esteem, to love — and then to part, 
Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart ! 
for some dear abiding-place of Love, 
O'er which my spirit, hke the mother dove, 
Might brood with warminor wino-s ! fair as kind. 
Were but one sisterhood with you combined, 
(Your very image they in shape and mind) 
Far rather would I sit in solitude, 
The forms of memory all my mental food. 
And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine !) 
And only dream of you (ah, dream and pine !) 
Than have the presence, and partake the pride, 
And shine in the eye of all the world beside ! 



THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. 

AN AliLEGORT. 
I. 

TJE too has flitted from his secret nest, 

Hope's last and dearest child without a name ! 
Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame. 
That makes false promise of a place of rest 

* See Note at the end of the Volume. 



224 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

To the tired Pilg-rim's still believing mind ; 
Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court, 
Who having won all guerdons in his sport, 
Glides out of view, and whither none can find ! 



II. 
Yes ! He hath flitted from me — with what aim, 
Or why, I knoAv not ! 'Twas a home of bliss. 
And he was innocent, as the pretty shame 
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss, 
From its twy-clustered hiding-place of snow ! 
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow 
As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast : 
Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge : 
Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss, 
That well might glance aside, yet never miss. 
Where the sweet mark embossed so sweet a targe — 
Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest ! 



III. 
Like a loose blossom on a gusty night 
He flitted from me — and has left behind 
(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) 
Of either sex and answerable mind 
Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame : 
The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) 
And Kindness is the gentler sister's name. 
Dim likeness now, tho' fair she be and good 
Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ; 
But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, 
And while her face reflected every look, 
And in reflection kindled — she became 
So like him, that almost she seemed the same ! 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 225 

IV. 

Ah ! He is gone, and yet will not depart ! 

Is with me still, yet I from Him exiled ! 

For still there lives within my secret heart 

The magic image of the magic Child, 

Which there he made up-grow by his strong art. 

As in that crystal* orb — wise Merlin's feat,— 

The wondrous " World of Glass," wherein inisled 

All longed for things their beings did repeat ; — 

And there He left it, like a Sylph beguiled, 

To live and yearn and languish incomplete ! 

V. 

Can wit of man a heavier orrief reveal ? 

Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ? 

Yes ! one more sharp there is that deeper lies, 

Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal. 

Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise. 

But sad compassion and atoning zeal ! 

One pang more blighting-keen than hope betrayed ! 

And this it is my woful hap to feel. 

When at her Brother's best, the twin-born Maid 

With face averted and unsteady eyes. 

Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on ; 

And inly shrinking from her own disguise 

Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone. 

O worse than all ! pang all pangs above 

Is Kindness counterfeitins^ absent Love ! 



Faerie Queen, b. in. c. 2. s. 19. 



226 SIBYLLINE LEAVES, 

KUBLA KHAN: OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. 

A FRAGMENT. 

In the suimner of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill 
health, had retired to a lonely farmhouse between Por- 
lock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and 
Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an 
anodyne had been prescribed, from the effect of which he 
fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading 
the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in 
** Purchas's Pilgrimage :" " Here the Khan Kubla com- 
manded a palace to be built, and a stately garden there- 
unto : and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed 
with a wall." The author continued for about three hours 
in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during 
which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could 
not have composed less than from two to three hundred 
lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all 
the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel 
production of the correspondent expressions, without any 
sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking, he ap- 
peared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the 
whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and 
eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At 
this moment, he was unfortunately called out by a person 
on business fi'om Porlock, and detained by him above an 
hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small 
surprise and mortification, that though he still retained 
some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of 
the visiini, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten 
scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away 
like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone 
had been cast, but, alas ! without the after restoration of 
the latter : 

Then all the charm 
Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
And each mis shape the other. Stay awhile, 
Foor youth ! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes — 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 227 

The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return! Andlo! he stays, 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling baok, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a mirror. 

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the 
Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what 
had been originally, as it were, given to him. Avpiou aoiov 
affo) : but the to-morrow is yet to come. 

As a conti'ast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment 

of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity 

the dream of pain and disease. 

1816. 

KUBLA KHAN. 

TN Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A statel}^ pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And there wer*^ gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth- 
ing, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 



228 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ; 
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was heard the minirled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome, with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid. 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Sinixing- of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair. 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And diunk the milk of Paradise. 



SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 229 



THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 

"p^RE on my bed my limbs I lay, 

It hath not been my use to pray 
With moving lips or bended knees ; 
But silently, by slow degrees, 
My spiiit I to Love compose, 
In humble trust mine eye-lids close, 
With reverential resignation, 
No wish conceived, no thought exprest, 
Only a sense of supplication ; 
A sense o'er all my soul imprest 
That I am weak, yet not unblest, 
Since in me, round me, everywhere 
Eternal streng-th and wisdom are. 



But yester-night I prayed aloud 
In anguish and in agony, 
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 
A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
Sense of intolerable wrong, 
And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
Still baffled, and yet burnino- still ! 
Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl 
And shame and terror ov^er all ! 
Deeds to be hid which were not hid. 
Which all confused I could not know, 
Whether I suffered, or I did ; 
For all seemed guilt, remo''se, or woe, 
21 



230 S 1 B ^ L L 1 N E I. E A V E S . 

Mv own or others still the same 
Life-stifling fear, soul -stifling shame. 

So two nights pass'd ; the night's dismay- 
Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
Distemper's worst calamity. 
The third night, when my own loud scream 
Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
O'ercome with suff"erings strange and wild, 
I wept as I had been a child ; 
And having thus by tears subdued 
My anguish to a milder mood, 
Such punishments, I said, were due 
To natures deepliest stained with sin, — 
For aye entempesting anew 
The unfathomable hell within 
The horror of their deeds to view. 
To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 
Such griefs with such men well agree, 
But wherefoi'e, wherefore fall on me ? 
To be beloved is all I need, 
And whom I love, I love indeed. 



WHAT IS LIFE? 



"DESEMBLES life what once was deemed of light, 

Too ample in itself for human sight ? 
An absolute self — an element ungrounded — 
All that we see, all colors of all shade 

By encroach of darkness made ? — 
Is very hfe by consciousness unbounded ? 
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, 
A Avar-embrace of wrestling life and death ? 

1829. 



SI BYLLIxNE LEAVES. 231 



LIMBO. 

'T^IS a strange place, this Limbo! — not a Place, 
Yet name it so ; — where Time and weary- 
Space 
Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing. 
Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ; — 
Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands 
Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, 
Not mark'd by flit of Shades — unmeaning they 
As moonlight on the dial of the day^ ! 
But that is lovely — looks like human Time, — 
An old man with a steady look sublime. 
That stops his earthly task to watch the skies ; 
But he is blind — a statue hath sucli eyes ; — 
Yet having moonward turned his face by chance. 
Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance. 
With scant white haiis, with foretop bold and high. 
He gazes still, — his eyeless face all eye ; — 
As 'twere an oro-an full of silent sio^ht. 
His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light! — 
Lip touching hp, all moveless, bust and limb — 
He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on 
him. 
No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, 
Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, 
By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, 
Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral. 
A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, 
Yet that is but a Purgatory curse ; 
Hell knows a fear far worse, 
A fear — a future state ; — 'tis positive Negation ! 



232 SIBYLLINE LEAVES, 



NE PLUS ULTRA. 

Q OLE Positive of Night! 
Antipathist of Light ! 
Fate's only essence ! primal scorpion rod — 
The one permitted opposite of God ! — 
Condensed blackness and abysmal storm 
Compacted to one sceptre 
Arms the Grasp enorm — 
The Intercepter — 
The Substance that still casts the shadow Death !- 
The Dragon foul and fell — 
The unrevealable, 
And hidden one, whose breath 
Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell ! — 
Ah ! sole despair 
Of both th' eternities in Heaven ! 
Sole interdict of all bedewing prayer, 
The all -compassionate ! 
Save to the Lampads Seven 
Revealed to none of all th' Angelic State, 
Save to the Lampads Seven, 
That watch the throne of Heaven ! 



Uimc of tl)c Ancient iHariucr* 

IN SEVEN PARTS. 

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas iuvisibiles qnam visi- 
biles ill rerum uuiversitate. Sed horum oiniiium fami'iiam 
quia nobis enarrabit, et gradus et cognationes et discrimina 
at singulorum indiiera ? Quid agunt ? quae loca habitant ? 
Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humauum, 
uunquam atligit. Juvat, iuterea, nou difBteor, quaudoque 
in auimo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi 
imaginem contemplari ; ne mens assuefacta hodiernae vitte 
minutiis se contraliat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas 
cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, mo- 
d usque servandus, ut cerla ab incertis, diem a nocte, dis- 
tinguamus.T. — burnet. arch^ol. phil. p. 68. 

PART I. 

IT is an ancient Mariner, Marfner^"* 

A __ J i_ _ -i. i.1- „f a1 meeteth 

three 



three gal- 
lants, Bid- 



And he stoppeth one of three. 
" By thy long grey beard and ghttering eye, Ky 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? feLt/arfd 



detaineth 



*'The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
** There was a ship," quoth he. 
21* 



234 RliME OF THE 

" Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !" 
Eftsoons his band dropt be. 

dinlTuelit ^^ bolds bim witb his glittering eye — 
bound by The wedding-guest stood still, 

A.nd listens like a tbree years' cbild : 

The Mariner batb bis will. 



the eye of 
the old sea- 
faring nnan, 
and con- 
strained to 
hear his 
tale. 



The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot cboose but bear ; 
And tbus spake on tbat ancient man, 
The brigbt-eyed Mariner. 

Tbe sbip was cbeered, tbe barbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below tbe kirk, below tbe bill, 

Below tbe ligbt-bouse top. 

The Ma- The sun came up upon tbe left, 

how the^ Out of tbe sea came be ! 

southward And be sbone bris^bt, and on tbe riffbt 

with a ,,^ ^ , =* ° 

good ^yind Went Qown mto the sea. 

and fair 
weather till 
it reached 

the Line. Higber and bigber every day. 
Till over tbe mast at noon — 
Tbe Wedding- Guest bere beat bis breast. 
For be beard the loud bassoon. 

diSg Tutt The bride batb paced into tbe ball, 
me bridal R^d as a rose is sbe ; 
mus.c^l^but ]sq-o(j(jing their beads before ber goes 
tinuet'h his The merry minstrelsy. 

tale. 

The Wedding-Guest be beat bis breast. 
Yet be cannot cboose but bear : 



A N C 1 B N T M A R 1 iN E R. 



And thus spake on tliat ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head. 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward a3^e we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 



The ship 
drawn by a 
storm to- 
wards the 
south pole. 



And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 



The land 
of ice, and 
of fearful 
sounds, 
where no 
living thing 
was to be 
seen. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 

howled, 
Like noises in a s wound ! 



At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 



Till a great 
sea-bird, 
called the 
Albatross, 
came 
through 
the snow- 
tog, and 



Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 



23G IMME OF THE 

wiisrectiv- j(_ .^^g ^j^g food it ue'er had eat, 

ed with 

Imr&i- ^""i round and round it flew. 
^"'^- The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through. 

Andio! And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
uoss^prp;- The Albatross did follow, 
ofiood"^ And every day, for food or play, 

omen- and 
fiillovveth 
the ship as 
it letumeth 
northward 
through 

floating It perched for vespers nine ; 
^"^^ Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 

white, 
GUmmered the white moon-shine. 

The an- n Qq^ g^ve thee, ancient Mariner ! 

cient ma- 

pulhiy^"'' From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! 
pioufbird^ Wliy look'st thou so ?" With my cross- 

of good ho^v 

omen. uuw 

I shot the Albatross. 



PART II 

n^HE Sun now rose upon the right : 

Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind. 
But no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the manner's hollo ! 



His 



gjjj And I had done a hellish thing, 



xais snip- 

mates cry ^nd it would work 'cui woe I 

out against -^^^'^^ lu i v^«. 



A N C I E i\ T MARINER. 



237 



For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow! 



the ancient 
Mariner, 
for killing 
the l)ir(l of 
good lucii. 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist : 

Then all averred, I had killed tlie bird 

That brouo'ht the foo- and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That brin^c the fog- and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea ! 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 

down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea. 



But when 
the fog 
cleared off, 
they justify 
the same, 
and ttuis 
make 

themselves 
accom- 
phces in 
the crime- 



The fair 
breeze con- 
tinues ; the 
ship enters 
the Pacific 
Ocean, and 
sails north- 
ward, even 
till it 
reaches 
the Line. 

The ship 
hath been 
suddenly 
becalmed. 



All in a hot and copper sky. 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bio^o'er than the Moon. 



Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere, 
And all the boards did shiink ; 



And the 
Albatross 
begins to 
he aveng- 
ed. 



2'SS UIME OF THE 

Water, water, evei'y where, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



The veiy deep did rot : Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, shmy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death- fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 



A spirit 
h;!(l (bllovv- 
eil them ; 
one of the 
invisible 
inh ibitants 



of thif From the land of mist and snow. 

planet, 
neither de- 
parted souls nor angels ; concerninff whom the learned Jew, Josephus, ana 
the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. The? 
are very numerous, and there is no ciimite or element without one or more. 

x\nd every tongue, through utter drought. 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



Ah! well a-day! what evil looks 



Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



'rhe ship- 
mutes, in 

dSe'r Had I from old and }'oung 1 

would fain 
throw the 
whole ffuilt 
on the 
ii.icient 
Mariner; 
in sign 
whereof 
they hang 
the dead 
sea-bird 
round his 
neck. 



A N C I E \ T M A R I N E R . 239 



PART III. 

n^HERE passed a weary time. Each 

throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A wearv time ! a weary time ! cient Kia- 

•^ *' riner be- 

holdeth a 
siffii ill the 



The an- 



How ghized each weary eye, 
Wlien looking westward 
A something in the sky. 



Wlien lookinor westward, I beheld aiul"off 



At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black hps At its 

, 1 1 nearer ap- 

baked, proachjt 

We could nor lauo-h nor wail ; him to be 

a ship • 

ThrouQjh utter drougjht all dumb we stood ! an»iata 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, ^"'"i't.- 

'' ' freeth his 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! ^-^"^"^"^v. 

irom the 
bonds of" 

Witli throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked. 
Agape they heard me call : 

Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, a flash of 

And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tapks no more ! mo„''s°"°' 
Hifher to work us weal ; f°aXi' 



240 RIME OF THE 

JJ'^^t^comes Without a breeze, without a tide, 
'vind oJ She steadies with upright keel ! 

tide? 

The western wave Wcis all a- flame, 

The day was well nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 



^ And straio'ht the Sun was flecked with 

It seemeth ^ 

him but bars 

the skeie- ^ ' 

sK* * (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

And its j^YQ those her ribs throujTh which the Sun 

ribs are ^ 

seen us j)ij peer, as throuo-h a grate ? 

bars oil the r ' so 

Sin' '*"" ^"^ ^'^ ^^^^^ Woman all her crew ? 



spectre- 
woman 
and her 
deathmate, 
and no 
other on 
board the 
skeleton- 
ship. 



Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
sei,1ikf ' The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 



crew ! 



Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



Death and rpj naked hulk aloncTside came, 

Liie-in- o 

Death hav 
diced for 



ANCIENT M A R I N E R . 



211 



" The game is done ! I've won, I've won !" crewSd 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 



The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 



she (the 
latter) win- 
neth the 
ancient 
Mariner. 

No twilight 
within the 
courts of 
the sun. 



We hstened and looked sideways up 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My hfe-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 

white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh. 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sign nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by, 
Like the whizz of my crossbow ! 



At the ris- 
ing of the 
Moon. 



One after 
another, 



His ship- 
mates drop 
down 
dead. 



But Life- 
in-Death 
begins her 
work on 
the ancient 
Mariner. 



22 



242 EI ME OF THE 



PART IV. 

The wed- *' T FEAR thee, ancient Mariner 

fe'afefh^.^ I fear thy skinny hand ! 

ritistaik- And thou art lon^, and lank, and brown, 

ing to him. . . , m i i i 

As IS the ribbed sea-sand.* 



I fear thee and thy ghttering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." 
But the an- Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest 

cient Ma- . , , , ° ^ 

rinerassur- i hlS DOdv dropt UOt doWn. 
eth him of J L 

his bodily 
hfe, and 

to relate Alone, aloue, all, all alone, 

his horrible . , . , . , , 

penance. Aloue on a Wide, Wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



The many men, so beautiful ! 
eth the And thev all dead did lie : 

creatures •' 

of the And a thousand thousand slimy things 

calm. , •' o 

Lived on ; and so did I. 



And envi- I looked upou the rotting sea, 

eth that , , , 

theyshotdd And drew my eyes away ; 
m'unyiie^° I looked uDon the rottincr deck, 

'lead. * , T ,11 1 

And there the dead men lay. 



* For the last two Hues of this stanza, I am indebted to 
Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delighll'ul walk from Nether 
Stowey to Diilverton, with him and his sister, in the au- 
tumn of 1797, that this poem was planned, and in part 
compost d. 



ANCIENT MARINER. 243 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and 

the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 



The cold sweat melted from their limbs, But the 

curse liv- 
eth lor him 
in the eye 



Nor rot nor reek did they : 

The look with which they looked on me meS®'*^'"^ 

Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ; more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 

And yet I could not die. 



The movinp^ Moon went up the sky, , ^. , 

o , ^ •' In his lone- 

And nowhere did abide : linessarid 

fixedness, 

Softly she was going up, e^h'towa;ds 

And a star or tv/o beside — neym-"^' 

Moon, and 
the stars 
that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky be- 
longs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their 
own natural homes, which they enter unmnounced, as lords that are certainly 
expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 



244 l< 1 'vl C u I'' T H E 

But where tlie chip's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 



By the Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
moouL?'' I watched the water-snakes : 
God°s ciSi- They moved in tracks of shining white, 
greltcaK And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

Their O happy living things ! no tongue 
fe hap-^ Their beauty might declare : 
piness. ^ spring of love gushed from my heart. 
He bless- And I blessed them unaware : 

eth them , . i . n • 

in his Sure mv kmd saint took pity on me, 

heart. •' ^ '' 

And I blessed them unaware. 



The spell 



The selfsame moment I could pray 



begins to ^^d from my neck so free 

break. J 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



PA.RT V. 

r\^ Sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen tl«e praise be given ! 



A N C I E N T M A R I N E R . 



2U 



She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 



The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew 

And when I aAvoke, it rained. 



By grace of 
the holy 
Mother, 
the ancient 
Mariner is 
refreshed 
with rain. 



My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roarinsf wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flaofs sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth 
strange 
sights and 
commo 
tions in the 
sky and the 
element. 



And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 

A.nd the rain poured down from one black 

cloud ; 
The Moon was at its edge. 
22* 



246 R IMii O V T 11 E 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side : 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

Jhc^^o'iie*' The loud wind never reached the ship, 
H?Ss*pTr^ Yet now the ship moved on ! 
shlp^'mVvel Beneath the lightning and the moon 
""■■ The dead men gave a groan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do ; 

They raised their hmbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope. 
But he said naught to me. 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 

Be calm, thou Wedding- Guest ! 

the souls of 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 

the men, . , , . . 

norbyde- Which to theu' corses came ao-am, 

mens of ° 

earth or . But a troop of Spirits blest : 

middle air. ^ i 

SiesseY '^^^' '^^^i^^i^ ^t dawned — they dropped their 

troop of nrm=; 

HM.nts.^sen.t ^^j^j clustered round the mast 



A N (J 1 E N T M A R J N E R 



247 



Sweet sounds lo^e slowlv throusch their J^®'"Xoca- 

•/ o noil or the 

guardian 
saint. 



mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 



Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the Sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas all like instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow. 
The spirit shd : and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 



The lone- 
some spirit 
from the 
south pole 
carries on 
the ship as 
far as the 
Line, in 



248 



RIME OF THE 



obedience 
to the an- 
eelic troop, 
but still re- 
quireth 
vengeance. 



The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head. 
And I fell down in a s wound. 



The Polar 
Spirit's 
fellow de- 
mons, the 
invisible 
inhabitants 
of the ele- 
ment, take 
part in his 
wrong; and 
two of 
them re- 
late, one to 
the other, 
that pe- 
nance long 
and heavy 
for the an- 
cient Ma- 
riner hath 
been ac- 
corded to 
the Polar 
Spirit, who 
returneth 
southward. 



How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

'' Is it he ?" quoth one, " Is this the man? 
By him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

" The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow. 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew ; 

Quoth he, "The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do." 



A. N C I E N T M A R I x\ B R. 



249 



PART VI. 

FIRST VOICE. 

"DUT tell me, tell me! speak again. 

Thy soft responfc-e renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast ; 

His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 

For she guides him smooth or o-rim. 

O o 

See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketli down on him. 



FIRST VOICE, 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The air is cut away before 
And closes from behind. 



more high ! 



Fly, brother, fly ! more high 

Or we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner's trance is abated. 



The Ma- 
riner hath 
been cast 
into a 
trance ; for 
the angehc 
power 
causeth the 
vessel to 
drive north 
ward faster 
than hu- 
man life 
could en- 
dure. 



I woke, and we Avere sailing on 
As in a jxentle weather : 



The 8uper- 
natureil 
motion is 

retarded ; 



250 RIME OF THE 

rirfefa^ 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
arftfh'ispe- The dead men stood together. 

nance be 
gins anew. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

The curse And now this spell was snapt : once more 

is finally t • i ^i 

expiated. 1 Viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what else had been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 
And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 



ANCIENT AI A R I N E R , 



261 



Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
Yet she sailed softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
The liglit-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree ? 



And the 

ancient 

Mariner 

beholdeth 

his native 

country. 



We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with sobs did pray — 
let me be aAvake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were. 
In crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 
I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 



The an- 
ffelic spirits 
leave the 
dead 
bodies, 
and appear 
in their 
own forms 
of light. 



RIME OF THE 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And by the holy rood ! 
A man all hght, a seraph -man, 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 

No voice did they impart — 

No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away. 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



ANCIENT MARINER. 253 



The Her- 
mit of the 
wood. 



PART VII. 

n^HIS Hermit good lives in that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with mariners 
That come from a far conntree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump ; 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak stump. 

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
" Why this is strange I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair. 
That signal made but now ?" 

♦* Strange, by my faith !" the Hermit said— f^l^f^' 
" And they answered not our cheer ! wonder*^ 

The planks looked warped ! and see those 

sails. 
How thin they are and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest brook along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 
That eats the she-wolf's young." 

'* Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 
I am a-feared " — "Push on, push on !" 
Said the hermit cheerily. 
23 



254 



RIME OF THE 



The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straiofht a sound was heard. 



The ship 
suddenly 
sinketh. 



The an- 
cient Ma- 
riner is 
saved in 
the Pilot's 
boat. 



Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread : 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 

The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote. 

Like one that hath been seven days 

drowned 
My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dieams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot's boat. 



Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 



Was telling of 



the sound. 



I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell do\vn in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Lauofhed loud and loner, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

"Ha! ha!" quoth he, " full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row." 



And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 



A iN C I E N T M A R 1 N E R , 



The Hermit vstepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 



*' shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !" 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
" Say quick," quoth he, *' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony. 
Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
And then it left me free. 



The an- 
cient Ma- 
riner ear- 
nestly 
entreatefh 
the Hermit 
to shrieve 
him ; and 
the pe- 
nance of 
life falls on 
him. 



Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him mv tale I teach. 



And ever 
and anon 
throughout 
his future 
lite an 
agony con- 
straineth 
him to tra- 
vel from 
land to 
land: 



What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 



Wedding- Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 



256 R I M E O F T H E 

So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

And to Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 

teach, by ' 



To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 



his own 
example, 
love and 
reverence 

Ihai'c^or' Both man and bird and beast. 

made and 
loveth. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the Wedding- Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 



€ I) r i 1 a b e I 



PREFACE.* 

The first part of the following poem was written In the 
year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The 
eecond part, after my return from Germany, in the year 
1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable, that if 
the poem had been finished at either of the former periods, 
or if even the first and second part had been published in 
the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have 
been much greater than I dare at present expect. But for 
this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates 
are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding 
charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. 
For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, 
that every possible thought and image is traditional ; who 
have no notion that there are such things as fountains in 
the world, small as well as great ; and who would there- 
f )re charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from 
a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am con- 
fident, however, that as far as the present poem is con- 
cerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might be 
suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, 
or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be the 
first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any 
striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in 
this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters. 

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; 
But an if this will not do; 
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I 
Am the poorer of the two. 



♦ To the edition of 181S. 

23* 



258 C U R I S T A B E L . 

I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is 
not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so 
from its being founded on a new principle ; namely, that 
of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. 
Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in 
each line the accents will be found to be oidy four. Ne- 
vertheless this occasional variation in number of syllables 
is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of conve- 
nience, but in correspondence with some transition, in the 
nature of the imagery or passion. 



PART I. 

''^PIS the middle of night by the castle clock. 

And the owls have awakened the crowing 
cock : 

Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock. 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin grey cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 



CHRISTABEL. 259 

*Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well. 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the castle gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And naught was green upon the oak. 
But moss and rarest mistletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree. 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly, 

Tlie lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moaned as near, as near can be. 

But what it is she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
That dances as often as dance it can. 



260 C H R 1 S T A B E L . 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Chiistabel ! 
Jesu, ]\Iaria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 

Drest in a silken robe of white. 

That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 

The neck that made that white robe wan. 

Her stately neck and arms were bare ; 

Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, 

And wildly glittered here and there 

The gems entangled in her hair. 

I guess 'twas frightful there to see 

A lady so richly clad as she — 

Beautiful exceedingly ! 

Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou ? 

The lady strnnge made answer meet, 

And her voice was faint and sweet : — 

Have pity on my sore distress, 

I scarce can speak for weariness : 

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 

Said Christabel, How earnest thou here ? 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet. 

Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

My sire is of a noble line. 
And my name is Geraldine : 



C H R I 8 T A B E L . 261 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries wiUi force and fright. 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white : 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak ; 

He swore they would return with haste : 

Whither they went I cannot tell — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, 

Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 

And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 

O well, bright dame ! may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble father's hall. 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 



262 U K R J S T A B E L 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sweet Chris tabel : 

All our houseliold are at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health. 

And may not well awakened be. 

But we will move as if in stealth, 

And I beseech your courtesy, 

This night, to shai-e your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well , 

A little door she opened straight, 

All in tlie middle of the gate ! 

The gate that was ironed within and without, 

Wheie an army in battle array had marched out. 

The lady sank, belike through pain. 

And Ciiristabel with might and main 

Lifted her up, a weary weight, 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again, 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free fi'om danger, free from fear. 

They ci'ossed the court : light glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the Lady by her side ; 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 

Alas, alas ! said Geraidine, 

I cannot speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

The}'^ crossed the court : right glad they were. 



C II R I S T A B E L . 263 

Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake, 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
Never till now she uttered yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They passed the hall, that echoes still. 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 

The brands were flat, the brands were dying, 

Amid their own white ashes lying ; 

But when the lady passed, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 

And nothing else saw she thereby, 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 

Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

O softly tread, said Christabel, 

My father seldom sleepeth well. 

Sweet Chiistabel liei- feet doth bare, 
And, jealous of the listening air. 
They steal their way from stair to stair, 
Now in ghmmer, and now in gloom. 
And now they pass t)ie Baron's room. 
As still as death with stifled breath ! 
And now have reached her chamber door ; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The rushes of the chamber floor. 
The moon shines dim in the open air. 
And not a moonbeam enters here. 



264 CHRISTABEL. 

But they without its Hght can see 

The chamber carved so curiously, 

Carved with figures strange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain, 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet, 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 

And left it swino^iiicr to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Geraldine, 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me, 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was born. 
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell, 
HoAv on her death-bed she did say. 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were! 
But soon with altered voice, said she — 

** Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
I have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 



CHRISTABEL. 

Can she the bodiless dead espy? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
" Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
And faintly said, " 'Tis over now !" 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 
And from the floor whereon she sank, 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see. 
Like a lady of a far countree. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 
All they, who live in the upper sky, 
Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
And you love them, and for their sake 
And for the good which me befell. 
Even I in my degree will try. 
Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
But now unrobe yourself; for I 
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 

Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her orentle limbs did she undress. 
And lay down in her loveliness. 
24 



266 C H R I S T A B E L . 

But through her brain of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
That vain it were her hds to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the lady Geraldine. 



Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side— 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 



Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To lift some weight with sick assay. 
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
And lay down by the maiden's side ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took. 

Ah well-a-day! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say : 

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
This mark of my shame, tliis seal of my sorrow. 



C H R I S T A B E L . 267 

But vainly thou warrest, 

For this is alone in 
Th}^ power to declare, 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning. 
And found 'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; 
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in 

charity, 
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 

FT was a lovely sight to see 

The lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs. 

Kneeling in the moonlight. 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to blisis or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair, not pale, 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
Asleep and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
Dreaming that alone, which is — 
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
The lady who knelt at the old oak tree ? 
And lo ! the worker of these harms, 
That holds the maiden in her arms. 



2G8 CHRIS TAB EL. 

Seems to slumber still and mild. 
As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 

Geraldine ! since arms of thine 

Have been the lovely lady's prison. 

O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 

Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 

The night-birds all that hour were still. 

But now they are jubilant anew, 

From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 

Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ' 

And see ! the lady Christabel 

Gathers herself from out her trance ; 

Her limbs relax, her countenance 

Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 

Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 

Lai-ge tears that leave the lashes bright ! 

And oft the while she seems to smile 

As infants at a sudden light ! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep. 

Like a youthful hermitess. 

Beauteous in a wilderness, 

Who, praying always, pravs in sleep. 

And, if she move unquietl}^. 

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free, 

Comes back and tingles in her feet. 

No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 

What if her guardian spiiit 'twere ? 

What if she knew her mother near ? 

But this she knows, in joys and woes. 

That saints will aid if men will call : 

For the blue sky bends over all ! 



CHRISTABEL. 



PART II. 



E 



ACH matin bell, tlie Baron saith, 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said, 
When he rose and found his lady dead : 
These words Sir Leoline will say, 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began. 
That still at dawn the sacristan. 
Who duly pulls the heavy bell. 
Five and forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warninof knell. 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the Bard, So let it knell ! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can 
There is no lack of such, I ween, 
As well fill up the space betw^een. 
In Langdale Park and Witch's Lair, 
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
Who all give back, one after t'other. 
The death-note to their living brother ; 
And oft too, by the knell offended, 
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended, 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borodale. 
24* 



270 CHRISTABEL. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white, 
And tricks her hair in lovely phghL, 
And nothing doubting of her spell 
Awakens the lady Christabel. 
'* Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay down by her side — 
O rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath.the old oak tree ! 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air 
Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
That (so it seemed, her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
*' Sure I have sinned !" said Christabel, 
" Now heaven be prais'd if all be well !" 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
Did she the lofty lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He, who on the cross did groan, 
Might wash away her sins unknown, 
She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 



CHRIST A BEL. 271 

Tlie lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall, 
And pacing on through page and groom, 
Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same. 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he heard the lady's tale, 
And when she told her father's name. 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
Murmuring o'er the name again, 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth Avith one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain. 
And insult to his heart's best brother: 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between ; — 



272 C 1 1 li I S T A U 1'] L . 

But neither lieat, nor tVost, nor tliunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The milks of that wliich once halh been. 

Sir Leolitie, a niomcnL's space. 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face; 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again, 

then the J3aron forgot his ago, 

His uoble heart swelled high with rage ; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry. 

That they who thus had wrong'd the dame. 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

" And if they dare deny the same, 

My herald shall appoint a week, 

And let the i-ecreant traitors seek 

My tourney court — that there and then 

1 may dislodge their reptile souls 
From the bodies and forms of men ! 
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized : and he kenned 
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears w-ere on liis face. 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 

Prolonging it with joyous look. 

Which when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

She shrunk and shuddei-ed, and saw again — 



CHRISTABEL. 273 

(Ah ! woe is me ! Was it for thee, 

Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 

Again she saw that bosom old, 

Again she felt that bosom cold, 

And drew in her breath with a hissino- sound : 

o 

Wheieat the Knight turned wildly round, 
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 



The touch, the sight, had passed away. 
And in its stead that vision blest, 
Which comforted her after rest, 
While in the lady's arms she lay. 
Had put a rapture in her breast. 
And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles hke light ! 

With new surprise, 
** What ails, then, my beloved child?" 
The Baron said — His daughter mild 
Made answer, "All will yefc be well !" 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else ! so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deemed her sure a thingr divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended. 
As if she feared, she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

" Nay ! 
Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
"Ho! Bracy! the bard, the charge be thine! 



274 CJHHISTABEL. 

Go tliou, with music sweet and loud, 

And take two steeds with trappings proud. 

And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 

To bear thy harp and learn th}'- song, 

And clothe you both in solemn vest, 

And over the mountains haste along. 

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. 

Detain you on the valley road. 

And when he has crossed the Irthing flood. 

My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 

Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood 

And reaches soon that castle good 

Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

*' Bard Rracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet, 

Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 

More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 

And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 

Thj^ daughter is safe in Langdale Hall ! 

Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 

Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 

He bids thee come without delay 

With all thy numerous array ; 

And take thy lovely daughter home : 

And he will meet thee on the way 

With all his numerous array 

White with their panting palfreys' foam : 

And by mine honor ! I will say. 

That I repent me of the day 

When I spake words of fierce disdain 

To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 

— For since that evil hour hath flown. 

Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 

Yet ne'er found I a friend again 

Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." ^ 



C H R I S T A B E L . 975 

The lad}' fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 
" Thy words, thou sire of Cliristabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell : 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
That I had vowed with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
That gentle bird whom thou dost love. 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
Which when I saw and when I heard, 
I wonder'd what might ail flie bird ; 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old 
tree. 

'vAnd in my dream methought I went 

To search out what might there be found ; 

And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 

That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 

I went and peered, and could descry 

No cause for her distressful cry ; 

But yet for her dear lady's sake 

I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 

When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 

Coiled around its wings and neck, 

Green as the herbs on which it coucned, 



276 C H R 1 S T A B E L . 

Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
SwelUrig its neck as she swelled hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
The clock was echoing in the tower; 
But though my slumber was gone by. 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this self-same day, 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare. 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while 

Half-listening, heard him with a smile ; 

Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 

His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 

And said in courtly accents fine, 

" Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove. 

With arms more strong than harp or song. 

Thy sire and I will crush the snake !" 

He kissed her forehead as he spake. 

And Geraldine, in maiden wise. 

Casting down her large bright eyes, 

With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 

She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 

Softly gathering up her train, 

That o'er her right arm fell again ; 

And folded her arms across her chest. 

And crouched her head upon her breast, 

And looked askance at Christabel 

Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 

And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head. 



CHRISTABEL. 277 

Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 

And with somewhat of mahce, and more of dread, 

At Christabel she looked askance ! — 

One moment — and the sight was fled! 

But Christabel in dizzy trance 

Stumbling on the unsteady ground 

Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 

And Geraldine again turned round, 

And like a thinsf that sought relief, 

Full of wonder and full of grief, 

She rolled her large bright eyes divine 

Wildly on Sir Leohne. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone. 

She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 

The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 

I know not how, in fearful wise 

So deeply had she drunken in 

That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 

That all her features were resigned 

To this sole image in her mind ; 

And passively did imitate 

That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 

And thus she stood in dizzy trance. 

Still picturing that look askance 

With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view ■ 

As far as such a look could be. 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
Paused awhile, and inly prayed; 
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
"By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send away !" 
She said : and more she could not say : 



278 CHRISTABEL. 

For what she knew she could not tell, 
O'ermastered by the mi^^hty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 
Sir LeoHne ? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
by the pangs of her dear mother 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her, and thee, and for no other, 
She prayed the moment ere she died ; 
Prayed that the babe for whom she died. 
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride. 
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 

Sir Leoline ! 
And would'st thou wrong thy only child. 

Her child and thine ? 

Within the Baron's heart and brain 
If thoughts like these had any share. 
They only swelled his rage and pain. 
And did but work confusion there. 
His heart was cleft with pairt and rage. 
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 
Dishonored thus in his old age ; 
Dishonored by his only child, 
And all his hospitality 
/To the wronged daughter of his friend 
By more than woman's jealousy 
Brought thus to a disgraceful end- 
He rolled his eye with stern regard 
Upon the gentle minstrel bard, 
And said in tones abrupt, austere— 
^'Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 



C H R I S T A B E L . 379 

1 bade thee hence !" The bard obej^ed : 
And turning from his own sweet maid 
The aged knight. Sir Leohne, 
Led forth the Lady Geraldine ! 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 

A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 
Singing, dancing to itself, 
A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
That always finds, and never seeks. 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 
Must needs express his love's excess 
With words of unmeant bitterness. 
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force togetlier 
Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
At each wild word to feel within 
A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
And wliat, if in a world of sin 
(0 sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain. 
So talks as it's most used to do. 



illi0CcUanc0U0 pocmB 



"Epcos aei "SdXrjSpos 'iraipog. 

In many ways doth the full heart reveal 

The presence of the lore it would conceal, 

But in far more th' estranged heart lets know 

Tke absence of the love, which yet it fain would show. 



ALICE DU CLOS; 

OR THE FORKED TONGUE. 

A BALLAD. 

"One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft: and 
a slit tongue he his blazon !" — Caucasian Proverb. 

" ^I^HE Sun is not yet risen, 

But the dawn lies red on the dew : 
Lord Juhan has stolen from the hunters away 
Is seeking, Lady, for you. 
Put on your dress of green. 

Your buskins and your quiver ; 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 
Lonor waitinor brooked he never. 
I dare not doubt him, that he means 

To wed you on a day. 
Your lord and master for to be, 

And you his lady gay. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 281 

Lady ! throw your book aside ! 

1 would not that my lord should chide." 

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
As spotless fair, as airy light 

As that moon-shiny doe, 
The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest! 
For ere the lark had left his nest. 

She in the garden bower below 
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white, 
Her face half drooping from the sight, 

A snow-drop on a tuft of snow ! 
O close your eyes, and strive to see 
The studious maid, with book on knee,— - 

Ah ! earliest-opened flower ; 
While yet with keen unblunted light 
The morning star shone opposite 

The lattice of her bower — 
Alone of all the starry host 

As if in prideful scorn 
Of flight and fear he stayed behind, 

To brave th' advancing morn. 

! Alice could read passing well, 

And she was conning then 
Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves. 

And gods, and beasts, and men. 

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein. 
It thrilled like venom through her brain ; 

Yet never from the book 
She raised her head, nor did she deign 
The knio'ht a sincrle look. 
25* 



282 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

" Off, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 

Thy wanton gaze on me ? 
And why, against my earnest suit, 

Does Juhan send by thee ? 

" Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure: 

Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
I follow here a stronger lure. 

And chase a gentler prey." 

She said : and wdth a baleful smile 
The vassal knight reeled off — 

Like a huge billow from a bark 

Toiled in the deep sea-trough, 

That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 
Is traversed by a flash. 

And staggering onward, leaves the ear 
With dull and distant crash. 

And Alice sate with troubled mien 
A moment ; for the scoff was keen, 
And through her veins did shiver ! 

o 

Then rose and donned her dress of green. 
Her buskins and her quiver. 

There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree ! 
From through the veiling mist you see 

The black and shadowy stem ; — 
Smit by the sun the mist in glee 
Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 

Each blossom hath its gem ! 

"With tear-drop glittering to a smile. 
The gay maid on the garden-stile 
Mimics the hunter's shout. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 283 

** Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse ! 
Go, bring the palfrey out. 

*' My Juhan's out with all his clan, 

And, bonny boy, you wis, 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 

Who comes late, comes amiss." 

Now Florian was a stripling squire, 

A gallant boy of Spain, 
That tossed his head in joy and pride, 
Behind his Lady fair to ride. 

But blushed to hold her train. 

The huntress is in her dress of green, 

And forth they go : she with her bow, 

Her buskins and her quiver ! 
The squire — no younger e'er was seen — 
With restless arm and laughing een, 

He makes his javelin quiver. 

And had not Ellen stay'd the race. 
And stopp'd to see, a moment's space. 

The whole great globe of lio-ht 
Give the last parting kiss-like touch 
To the eastern ridge, it lacked not much, 

They had o'erta'en the knight. 

It chanced that up the covert lane. 

Where Julian waiting stood, 
A neighbor knight prick'd on to join 

The huntsmen in the wood. 

And with him must Lord Julian go, 
Though with an angered mind ; 



284 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Betrothed not wedded to bis bride, 
In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride. 
Excuse to stay behind. 

He bit his hp, he wrung his glove, * 

He looked around, he looked above. 

But pretext none could find or frame ! 
Alas ! alas ! and well-a-day ! 
It grieves me sore to think, to say, 
That names so seldom meet with Love, 

Yet Love wants courage without a name ! 

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 

O'er-branching, made an aisle, 
"Where hermit old might pace and chaunt 

As in a minster's pile. 

From underneath its leafy screen, 

And from the twilight shade. 
You pass at once into a green, 

A green and lightsome glade. 

And there Lord Julian sate on steed ; 

Behind him, in a round, 
Stood knight and squire, and menial train ; 
Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 

The horses pawed the ground. 

When up the alley green. Sir Hugh 

Spurred in upon the sward, 
And mute, without a word, did he 

Fall in behind his lord. 

Lord Julian turned his steed half round. — 
''What! doth not Alice deign 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 285 

To accept your loving convoy, knight ? 
Or doth she fear our woodland sleiii^ht. 
And joins us on the plain ?" 



With stifled tones the knight replied, 
And look'd askance on either side, — 

"Nay, let the hunt proceed! — 
The Lady's message that I bear, 
I guess would scantly please your ear. 

And less deserves your heed. 

*' You sent betimes. Not yet unbarred 

I found the middle door ; — 
Two stirrers only met my eyes, 

Fair Alice, and one more. 

** I came unlocked for : and, it seemed. 

In an unwelcome hour ; 
And found the daughter of Du Clos 

Within the latticed bower. 

" But hush ! the rest may wait. If lost. 

No great loss, I divine ; 
And idle words will better suit 

A fair maid's lips than mine." 

" God's wrath ! speak out, man," Julian cried, 

O'erraaster'd by the sudden smart; — 
And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, 
The knight his subtle shift pursued. — 
" Scowl not at me ; command my skill. 
To lure your hawk back, if you will, 
But not a woman's heart. 



286 MISCELLANEOUS P O E M S 

" Go ! (said she) tell him, — slow is sure, 
Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 

I follow here a stronger lure. 
And chase a gentler prey." 

" The game, pardie, was full in sight. 
That then did, if I saw aright, 
The fair dame's eves eno^aore ; 

^ CD O ' 

For turning, as I took my ways, 
I saw them iix'd with steadfast gaze 
Full on her wanton page." 

The last word of the traitor knight 

It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
From two o'erarching oaks between, 
With glist'ning helm -like cap is seen, 
Borne on in giddy cheer, 

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; 
Yet with reverted face doth ride. 

As answering to a voice, 
That seems at once to laugh and chide — 
** Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried, 

" 'Tis this mad filly's choice." 

With sudden bound, beyond the boy, 
See ! see ! that face of hope and joy. 

That regal front ! thosfe cheeks aglow ! 
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
A quiver'd Dian to have been, 

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos ! 

Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood. 
Swift as a dream, fiom forth the wood. 
Sprang on the plighted Maid ! 



MISCELLANEOUS TOE MS. 287 

With fatal aim, and frantic force, 
The shaft was hurl'd ! — a lifeless corse. 
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse, 
Lies bleeding on the glade. 



THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 



Ty^HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 

Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helveilyn, 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — 
The Knight's bones are dust, 
And his good sword rust. — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 



HYMN TO THE EARTH. 

HEXAMETERS. 

Tj^ ARTH ! thou mother of numberless children, 

the nurse and the mother, 
Hail ! O Goddess, thiice hail ! Blest be thou ! and, 

blessing, I hymn thee ! 
Forth, ye sweet sounds : from my harp, and my 

voice shall float on your surges — 
Soar thou aloft, my soul ! and bear up my song 

on thy pinions. 
Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows 

and lake with green island, 



288 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dark in its bason of rock, and the bare stream flow- 
ing in brightness, 
Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded 

slope of the mountain, 
Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head 

on thy bosom ! 
Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through 

thy tresses. 
Green-haired goddess ! refresh me ; and hark, as 

they hurry or linger. 
Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musi- 
cal murmurs. 
Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest 

sadness 
Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy 

and the heavenly sadness 
Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and 

the hymn of thanksgiving. 
Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the 

nurse and the mother, 
Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun, the 

rejoicer, 
Guardian and friend of the moon, Earth, whom 

the comets forget not. 
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round, and 

again they behold thee ! 
Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of 

creation ?) 
Biide and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon 

thee enamored! 
Say, mysterious Earth ! say, great mother and 

goddess. 
Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap 

was ungirdled, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 289 

Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed 
thee and won thee ! 

Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the 
blushes of morning ! 

Deep was the shudder, O Earth ! the throe of thy 
self-retention ; 

Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at 
thy centre ! 

Mightier far was tlie joy of thy sudden resilience ; 
and forthwith 

Myriad myiiads of lives teemed forth from the 
mighty embracement. 

Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thou- 
sand-fold instincts. 

Filled, as a dream, the wide waters ; the rivers 
saner in their channels ; 

Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas ; the yearn- 
ing ocean swelled upward ; 

Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, 
and the echoing mountains. 

Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blos- 
soming branches. 



WRITTEN 

DURING A TEMPORARY BLINDNESS 

IN THE YEAR 1799. 

r\ WHAT a life is the eye ! what a strange and 

inscrutable essence ! 
Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that 

warms him ; 
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his 

mother ; 
26 



290 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that 

smiles in its skmiber; 
Even for him it exists ! It moves and stirs in its 

prison ! 
Lives "with a separate life : and — " Is it a spirit !" 

he murmurs : 
" Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only 

a language !" 



MAHOMET. 



TITTER the song, my soul ! the flight and 

return of Mohammed, 
Prophet and priest, who scattered abroad both evil 

and blessing, 
Huge wasteful empires founded and hallowed slow 

persecution, 
Soul-withering, but crushed the blasphemous rites 

of the Pagan 
And idolatrous Christians. — For veiling the Gospel 

of Jesus, 
They, tlie best corrupting, had made it worse than 

the vilest. 
Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior 

of Mecca, 
Choosing good from iniquity rather than evil from 

goodness. 
Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fane 

of the idol ; — 
Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid — the 

people with mad shouts 
Thunderinfj; now, and now with saddest ululation 
Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous 

nver 



iMiSCELL ANEOUS POEMS. 291 

Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar be- 
wildered, 

Rushes dividuous all — all rushing impetuous on- 
ward. 



CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES.* 

XTEAR, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! — 

Hiofh and embosomed in cons^reo-ated laurels. 
Glimmered a temple upon a breezy headland ; 
In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
.Rose a fair island ; the god of flocks had placed it. 
From the far shores of the bleak resounding island 
Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, 
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland. 
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
Up to the groves of the high embosomed temple. 
There in a thicket of dedicated roses. 
Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, 
Pouiing her soul to the son of Cytherea, 
Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat. 
And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor 
Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom. 



DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE. 

THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE. 
A SOLILOQUY. 

TTNCHANGED within to see all changed Avithout 

Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
Yet why at others' wanings shouldst thou fret ? 
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 

* See note at the end of the volume. 



292 MISCELLANEOUS TOE MS. 

Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
While, and on whom, thou may'st — shine on! nor 

heed 
Whether the object by reflected light 
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
And though thou notest from thy safe recess 
Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air. 
Love them for what they are ; nor love them less. 
Because to thee they are not what they were. 



PHANTOM OR FACT? 

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. 

AUTHOR. 

A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 

And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven. 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! — the change — It had not stirred, and yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! 
'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame. 
And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 

TRIEND. 

This riddhng tale, to what does it belong ? 
Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 293 

Or rather say at once, within what space 

Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 

AUTHOR. 

Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
But say, that years matured the silent strife, 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 



PHANTOM. 



A LL look and likeness caught from earth, 

All accident of kin and birth, 
Had passed away. There was no trace 
Of aught on that illumined face. 
Upraised beneath the rifted stone 
But of one spirit all her own ; — 
She, she herself, and only she, 
Shone through her body visibly. 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

LINES COMPOSED 21ST OF FEBRUARY, 1827. 

A LL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their 
lair — 
^HIb bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — 
And Winter, slumbering in the open air. 
Wears on his smihng face a dream of Spring ! 
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing. 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow, 
26* 



294 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my 

soul? 
"Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And hope without an object cannot live. 



YOUTH AND AGE 

"XTERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands. 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flashed along : — 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Naught cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O ! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 295 

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make believe that Thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old : 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave. 
Like some poor nigh-related guest. 
That may not rudely be dismist ; 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while. 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



A DAY DREAM. 



lyi" Y eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut, 

And thee, and me, and Mary there. 



296 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green 
willow ! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed. 

And that and summer well agree ; 
And lo ! where Mary leans her head. 
Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow ; 
Our sister and our fjiend will both be here to- 
morrow. 

'Twas day ! But now few, large, and bright 

The stars are round the crescent moon ! 
And now it is a dark warm night. 
The balmiest of the month of June.! 
A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet 
fountain. 

ever — ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Asra, love I thee ! 
This brooding warmth across my breast. 
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me ! 
Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither, 
But in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 

By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel 
thee ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POExMS. 297 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
But let me check this tender lay 

Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women ! 



FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE 

r\ FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 
^^ As Eve*s first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping ; 
And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, 
O'er willowy meads and shadowed waters creeping, 
And Ceres' golden fields :— the sultry hind ^ 
Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. 



NAMES. 

FROM LESSING. 



T ASKED my fair, one happy day, 
What I should call her in my lay ! 
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 

Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, 

Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
Arethusa, or Lucrece. 

Ah !" replied my gentle fair, 
Beloved, what are names but air ? 

Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage, or Doris, 

Only, only call me Thine." 



M I S C E L L A i\ E U S POEMS. 



DESIRE. 

\\/^HERE true Love burns, Desire is Love's pure 

flame ; 
It is the reflex of our earthly frame, 
That takes its meaning from the nobler part, 
And but translates the lanp-uafre of the heart. 



LOVE AND FPvIENDSHIP OPPOSITE. 

TTER attachment may diff'er from yours in degree, 

Provided they are both of one kind ; 
But friendship how tender soever it be 

Gives no accord to Love, however refined. 

Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature re- 
vealing, 

Grows ashamed of itself, and demurs : 
If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeling, 

You must lower down your state to hers. 



NOT AT HOME. 

'^l^HAT Jealousy may rule a mind 

Where Love could never be 
I know ; but ne'er expect to find 
Love without Jealousy. 

She has a strange cast in her ee, 
A swart sour-visaged maid — 

But yet Love's own twin-sister she, 
His house-mate and his shade. 



MISCELLANEOUS TOE MS. 299 

Ask for her and she'll be denied : — 

What then ? they only mean 
Their mistress has lain down to sleep, 

And can't just then be seen. 



TO A LADY, 

OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT 
WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS. 

"IVr AY, dearest Anna ! why so grave ? 

I said you had no soul, 'tis true ! 
For what you are, you cannot have ; 

'Tis I, that have one since I first had you ! 



T HAVE heard of reasons manifold 

Why Love must needs be blind, 
But this the best of all I hold — 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and feature are 

He guesseth but in part ; 
But what within is good and fair 

He seeth with the heart. 



AN INVOCATION. 

FROM "REMORSE." 

TJEA.R, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 

Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep long-lingering knell. 



300 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And at evening evermore, 

In a chapel on the shore, 

Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly, 

Yellow tapers burning fainti}^ 

Doleful masses chaunt for thee, 

Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away. 
On the quiet moonlight sea : 

The boatmen rest their oars and say, 
Miserere Dominie ! 



SONG. 

FROM " ZAPOLYA." 

A SUNNY shaft did I behold 
From sky to earth it slanted : 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 
He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 

Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold. 
All else of amethyst ! 

And thus he sang : " Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms, they make no delay : 
The sparkling dewdrops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far, far away ! 
To day ! to day !" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 301 

CHORAL SONG. 

FROM " Z A P O Y L A ." 

TTP, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay ! 

To the meadows trip away. 
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, 
And scare the small birds from the corn. 
Not a soul at home may stay ; 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse : 
Find grannam out a sunny seat, 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 



SONG OF THEKLA. 



FROM THE PICCOLOMINI, OR FIRST PART OF 
WALLENSTEIN. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 

^T^HE cloud doth gather, the green- wood roar, 
The damsel paces along the shore ; 

The billows they tumble with might, with might ; 

And she flings out her voice to the darksome 
night ; 

Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ; 
27 



302 MISCELLANEOUS TOE MS. 

The world it is empty, the heart will die, 
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky ; 
Thou Holy One, call thy child away ! 
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow. 



LINES. 

SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS 
OB. ANNO DOM. 1088. 

"IVrO more 'twixt conscience staggering and the 

Pope, 
Soon shall I now before my God appear, 
By him to be acquitted, as I hope ; 
By him to be condemned, as I fear. — 

KEFLECTION ON THE ABOVE. 

Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed, 

Be of good cheer, meek soul ! I would have said : 

I see a hope spring from that humble fear. 

All are not strong alike through storms to steer 

Right onward. What? thougli dread of threatened 

death 
And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath 
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ? 
That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice 

didst start. 
Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife. 
Or not so vital as to claim thy life : 
And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew 
Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true ! 



MISCELLANEOUS TOE M S . 303 

Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not j'Our own, 
Judge him who won them when he stood alone, 
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — ■ 
O first the age, and then the man compare ! 
That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
NTo host of fi'iends with kindred zeal did burn ! 
No thi-obbino- hearts awaited his return ! 

CD 

Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 

He only disenchanted from the spell. 

Like the weak worm thai o-ems the starless niu'lit. 

Moved in the scanty circlet of liis light : 

And was it strange if lie withdrew the ray 

That did but guide the night-birds to their prey ? 

The ascending day-star with a bolder eye 
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn ! 
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry 
The spots and struggles of the timid dawn ; 
Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn 
The mists and painted vapors of our morn. 



SAiNCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM; 

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND, 

FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF 
butler's EOOK of THE CHURCH. 

POET. 

T NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, 

And heed them more than aught they do or say : 
The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed 
Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ; 
These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! 
These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth ! 



304 M I iS C E L L A N E O U S POEMS 



made up of impudence and trick, 



With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, 
Rome's brazen serpent — boldly dares discuss 
The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss ! 
And with grim triumph and a truculent glee 
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, 
That made an empire's plighted faith a lie, 
And fixed a broad stare on the Devil's eye — 
(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart 
To stand outmastered in his own black art!) 
Yet 

FRIEND. 

Enough of ! we're agreed. 

Who now defends would then have done the deed. 
But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, 
Who but must meet the proffered hand half way 
When courteous 

POET. (Aside.) 

(Rome's smooth go-between !) 

FRIEND. 

Laments the advice that soured a milky queen — 

(For " bloody" all enlightened men confess 

An antiquated ei-ror of the press ;) 

Who rapt by zeal bej'ond her sex's bounds, 

With actual cautery staunched the church's wounds . 

And tho' he deems that with too broad a blur 

We damn the French and Irish massacre. 

Yet blames them both — and thinks the Pope might 

err ! 
What think you now ? Boots it with spear and shield 
Against such gentle foes to take the field 
Whose beck'ninff hands the mild Caduceus wield ? 



MISCSLLANEOUS POEMS. 305 

POET. 

What think I now ? Ev'n what I thought before ; — 

What • boasts tho' may deplore, 

Still I repeat, words lead me not astray 
When the shown feeling points a different way. 

S.nooth can say grace at slander's feast. 

And bless each haut-gout cooked by monk or priest ; 

Leaves the full lie on 's gong to swell, 

Content with half-truths that do just as well ; 
But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks. 
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks! 

So much for you, my Fiiend ! who own a Church, 
And would not leave your mother in the lurch ! 
But when a Liberal asks me what I think — 
Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink. 
And JeftVey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, 
In search of some safe parable I roam — 
An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome ! 
Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, 
I see a tiger lapping kitten's food : 
And who shall blame him that he purrs applause, 
When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause; 
And fiisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his 

claws ! 
Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, 
I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws 
More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, 
Impearling a tame wild-cat's whiskered jaws ! 
27* 



306 MISCELLANEOUS POEiMS. 

THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 

I. 
Tj^ROM his brimstone bed at break of day, 

A walking the Devil is gone, 
To visit his snug little farm the Earth, 
And see how his stock goes on. 



Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain, 
And backward and forward he switched his long tail 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 

III. 
And how then was the Devil drest ? 
Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : 
His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, 
And there was a hole where the tail came through. 

IV. 

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper 

On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; 

And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother Abel, 

He saw an Apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the Devil thought of his old friend 

Death in the Revelations. 

VI. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 
A cottage of gentility ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 307 

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 
Is pride that apes humility. 

vir. 
He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop, 

Quoth he! " We are both of one college ! 
For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once 

Hard by the tree of knowledge."* 

* And all amid them stood the tree of life 
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
Of vegetable gold (query paper money ?) and next to Life 
Our Death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by. — 



So clomb this first grand thief 

Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 

Sat like a cormorant. par. lost, iv. 

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various 
readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect 
to find it noted, that for " life" Cod. quid, habent, '' trade." 
Though indeed the trade, i. e. the bibliopolic, so called xar' 
e^d^riv, may be regarded as LWa sensu etninentiori; a sug- 
gestion which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, 
who on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner par- 
ties, country houses, &c., of the trade, exclaimed, "Ay I 
that's what I call Life now !" — This " Life, our Death," is 
thus happily contrasted with the fruits of authorship. — Sic 
nos nan nobis mellijicamus apes. 

Of this poem, which, with the " Fire, Famine, and Slaugh- 
ter," first appeared in the Morning Post, the 1st, 2d, 3d, 
9th, and 16th stanzas were dictated by Mr. Southey. See 
Apologetic Preface. 

If any one should ask who General meant, the Au- 
thor begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a red- 
faced person in a dream whom by the dress he took for a 
Genex-al ; but he might have been mistaken, and most cer- 
tainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple 
verity, the Author never meant any one, or indeed any 
thing but to put a concluding stanza to his doggerel. 



308 M I S C E L L .\ .\ E O U S TOE .M S . 

VIII. 

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 

A pig with Vfist celerity ; 
And the Devil looked wise as he saw how the while 

It cut its own throat. " There !" quoth he, with 
a smile, 
" Goes England's commercial prosperity." 



As he went through Cold- Bath Fields he saw 

A solitary cell ; 
And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in Hell. 

X. 

He saw a Turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
*' Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 

If a man be but used to his trade." 

XI. 

He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition. 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the slave-trade abolition. 

XII. 

He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed by a Methodist meeting ; 
She holds a consecrated key. 

And the Devil nods her a o-reetins:. 

XiIT. 

She turned up her nose and said, 
** Avaunt ! my name's Relimon," 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. WJ 



And she looked to Mr. 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 

XIV. 

He saw a certain minister 

(A minister to his mind) 
Go up into a certain House, 

With a majority behind, 



The Devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How " Noah and his creeping things, 

Went up into the Ark." 

XVI. 

He took from the poor, 

And he gave to the rich. 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the 



General burning face 

He saw with consternation. 
And back to hell his way did he take. 
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was general conflagration. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



AN ODE TO THE RAIN. 

COMPOSKD BEFORH", DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING Al'POINTKD 
FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY BUT NOT VERY 
PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN 
MIGHT DETAIN. 

T KNOW it is dark ; and though I have lain. 

Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 
I have not once opened the hds of my eyes. 
But I he in the dark, as a bhnd man hes. 

Rain ! that I he hstening to. 
You're but a doleful sound at best : 

1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true. 
For breaking thus my needful rest! 
Yet if, as soon as it is light, 

Rain! you will but take your flight, 
I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, 
Though sick and sore for want of sleep. 



But only now, for this one day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

O Rain ! with your dull two-fold sound. 

The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 

You know, if you know aught, that we. 

Both night and day, but ill agree : 

For days and months, and almost years. 

Have limped on through this vale of tears. 

Since body of mine, and rainy weather. 

Have lived on easy terms together. 

Yet if, as soon as it is light, 

O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 

Though you should come again to morrow. 

And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 



MISCELLANEOUS I' OEMS. :ill 

Though stomach should sicken and knees should 

swell — 
I'll nothing- speak of you but well. 
But only now for this one day, 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

Dear R lin ! I ne'er refused to say 
You're a good creature in your way ; 
Nay, I could write a book myself, 
Would fit a parson's lower shelf. 
Showing how very good you are. — 
What then ? sometimes it must be fair ! 
And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy, 

Take no offence ! I'll tell you wh3^ 

A dear old Friend e'en now is here, 

And with him came my sister dear ; 

After long absence now first met, 

Long months by pain and grief beset — 

With three dear friends ! in truth we groan — 

Impatiently to be alone. 

We three, you mark ! and not one more ! 

The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 

We have so much to talk about, 

So many sad things to let out ; 

So many tears in our eye-corners. 

Sitting like little Jacky Homers — 

In short, as soon as it is day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 
Whenever von shall come ao-nin, 



312 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Be you as dull as e'er you could, 
(And by the bye 'tis understood. 
You're not so pleasant as you're good) 
Yet, knowing well your worth and place, 
I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 
And though you stayed a week or more, 
Were ten times duller than before ; 
Yet with kind heart and right good will, 
I'll sit and listen to you still ; 
Nor should you go away, dear Rain ! 
Uninvited to remain. 
But only now, for this one day. 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 



LINES 

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW. 

"X^HAT though the chilly wide-mouthed quack- 
ing chorus 
From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak. 
So was it, neighbor, in the times before us. 
When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak. 
Romped \vith the Graces ; and each tickled Muse 
(That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, 
Was married to — at least he kept — all nine) 
Fled, but still with reverted faces ran ; 
Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, 
They had allured the audacious Greek to use. 
Swore they mistook him for their own good man. 
This Momus — Aristophanes on earth, 
Men called him — maugre all his wit and worth 
Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should 
you, 



iMISC G L L AN Furs i' O R M S . 313 

Or I, friends, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? 

No ! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 

*' 1 hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!" 



CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 

ClINCE all that beat about in Nature's range 

Or veer or vanish ! why should'st thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 

yearning thought ! that liv'st but in the brain ? 
Call to the hours, that in the distance play, 

The faery people of the future day — 

Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 

Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 

Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 

Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 

Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, 

She is not thou, and only thou art she. 

Still, still as thouo'h some dear embodied ojood. 

Some living love before my eyes there stood 

With answering look a ready ear to lend, 

1 mourn to thee and say — " Ah ! loveliest friend ! 
That this the meed of all my toils might be, 

To have a home, an English home, and thee !" 
Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one. 
The peacefuU'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
Lull'd by the thrush and wakened by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
And art thou nothing ? * Such thou art, as when 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
28 



314 xM I S C E L L A N E O U S TOE M S . 

At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
The viewless snow-mist weaves a gUst'ning haze, 
Sees full before him, glidintr without tread. 
An image* with a glory round its head ; 
The enamored rustic worships its fair hues, 
Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues ! 



THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. 

"C'RE the birth of my life, if I wished it or no, 

No question was asked me — it could not be so ! 
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try. 
And to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? to die. 

nature's answer. 
Is't return'd, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the 

wear ? 
Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you 

Ave re ! 
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, 
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. 
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ? 
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare ! 
Then die — if die you dare ! 

* This pheiiumeuou, which the author has liimself expe- 
rienced, and of which the reader may tind a description in 
one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical 
Transactions, is applied figuratively in the following pas- 
sage of the Aids to Reflection : 

" Pindar's fine i-emark respecting the different effects of 
music, on different characters, holds equally true of Genius ; 
as many as are not delighted by itare disturbed, perplexed, 
irritated. The beholder either recognises it as a projected 
form of his own being, that moves before him with a glory 
round its head, or recoils from it as a spectre." — Aids to 
Reflection, p. 22Q. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 315 



THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY 
DATE-TREE. 

A liAMENT. 

I sEK>i to have an indistinct recollection of having read, 
either in one of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, 
or in some other compilation from the uninspired Hebrew 
writers, an apologue or Rabbinical tradition to the follow- 
ing purpose : 

While our first parents stood before their offended 
Maker, and the last words of the sentence were yet sound- 
ing in Adam's ear, the guileful false serpent, a counterfeit 
and a usurper from the beginning, presumptuously took on 
himself the character of advocate oi- mediator, and pretend- 
ing to intercede for Adam, exclaimed : " Nay, Lord, in thy 
justice, not so ! for the Man was the least in fault. Rather 
let the Woman return at once to the dust, and let Adam re- 
main in this thy Paradise." And the word of the Alost High 
answered Satan ; " The tender mercies of the wicked are 
cruel. Treacherous fiend! if with guilt like thine, it had 
been possible for thee to have the heart of a Man, and to 
feel the yearning of a human soul for its counterpart, the 
sentence which thou now counsellest, shoidd have been 
inflicted on thyself.'' 

The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact 
mentioned by Liunseus, of a date-tree in a nobleman's gar- 
den, wluch year after year had put forth a full show of 
blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a branch from an- 
other date-tree had been conveyed from a distance of some 
hundred leagues. The first leaf of tlie MS. from which the 
poem has been transcribed, and which contained the two 
or three introductory stanzas, is wanting : and the author 
has in vain taxed his memory to repair the loss. But a 
rude draught of the poem contains the substance of the 
stanzas, and the reader is requested to receive it as the 
substitute. It is not impossible that some congenial spirit, 
whose years do not exceed those of the author, at the time 
the poem was written, may find a pleasure in restoring the 
Lament to its original integrity by a reduction of the 
thoughts to the recpiisite metre. 



3J6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



"DENEATH the blaze of a tropical sun, the moun- 
tain peaks are the thrones of frost, tlirough 
the absence of objects to reflect the rays. " What 
no one with ns shares, seems scarce our own." The 
presence of a one, 

The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, 
is for the heart, what the supporting air from witli- 
in is for the hollow globe with its suspended car. 
Deprive it of this, and all without, that would have 
buoyed it aloft, even to the seat of the gods, be- 
comes a burthen, and crushes it into flatness. 



The finer the sense for the beautiful and the 
lovely, and the fairer and lovelier tlie object pre- 
sented to the sense ; the more exquisite the indi- 
vidual's capacity of joy, and the more ample his 
means and opportunities of enjoyment, the more 
heavily will he feel the ache of solitariness, the more 
imsubstantial becomes the feast spread around him. 
What matters it, whether in fact the viands and the 
ministering graces are shadowy or real, to him who 
has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace ? 

III. 
Imagination : honorable aims ; 
Free commune with the choir that cannot die ; 
Science and song ; delight in little things, 
The buoyant child surviving in the man : 
Fields, forests', ancient mountains, ocean, sky, 
With all their voices — dare I accuse 
My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 
Or call my destiny niggard ! O no ! no ! 



M I S C E L L A N E O U is T U E M S 317 

It is her largeness, and her overflow, 
Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 



IV. 

For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 

But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 

Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start 

In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 

Beloved ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ! 

Then melts the bubble into idle air, 

And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 



The mother with anticipated glee 
Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair 
And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee, 
Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 
To mock the comino- sounds. At that sweet siofht 
She hears her own voice Avitli a new delight ; 
And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes 
aright. 



Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 

But should disease or chance the darling take. 

What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 

Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 

Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 

Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 

Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me ? 



28* 



318 MISCELLAXEUUii TOE MS. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

IZ' NOW'ST thou the land where the pale citrons 

grow, 
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow ? 
Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue 

sky ! 
Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high ! 
Know'st thou it well that land, beloved Friend ? 
Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend ! 



FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS 

/^ ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
To make the shifting clouds be what you please, 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous 
land ! 

Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight. 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 



MISCELLANEOUS P O E iM S . 319 

THE TWO FOUNTS. 

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY 
WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS FROM A SEVERE ATTACK 
OF PAIN. 

''T'WAS my last waking thought, how it could be 
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst 

endure ; 
When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, 

and he 
Could tell the cause, forsooth,^ and knew the cure. 

Methought he fronted me with peering look 
Fixed on my heart ; and read aloud in game 
Tlie loves and griefs therein, as from a book ; 
And uttered praise like one who wished to blame. 

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin 
Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ! 
That to let forth, and this to keep within ! 
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, 
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress 
Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence 
Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. 

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, 
That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 
Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below 
Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright ; — 

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, 
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 



320 MISCELLANEOUS T E M S . 

Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 

Ev'n so, Eliza ! on that face of thine, 

On that benignant face, whose look alone 

(The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !) 

Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, 

A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, 
But with a silent charm compels the stern 
And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring. 
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
In passion, spleen, or strife) the fount of pain 
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, 
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ? 

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, 
Had passed : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, 
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream ; 

Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, 

sweet, sweet sufferer ; if the case be so, 

1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise ! 

In every look a barbed arrow send. 
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
Do anything, rather than thus, sweet friend ! 
Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give ! 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 321 
THE AVANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

PREFATORY NOTK. 

A PROSE composition, not one in metre at least, seems 
prima facie to requii'e explanation or apology. It was 
written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey. in Somerset- 
shire, at which place {Sanctum et amahile nomen! rich by 
so many associations and recollections) the author had 
taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and 
close neighborhood of a dear and honored friend, T. Poole, 
Esq. The work was to have been written in concert with 
another, whose name is too venerable within the precincts 
of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connexion with 
such a trifle, and who was then residing at a suiall distance 
from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggest- 
ed by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the 
contents for each of the three books or cantos, of which the 
work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be inform- 
ed, was to have been finished in one night ! My partner 
undertook the first canto; I the second; and whichever 
had done first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty 
years have passed by; yet at this momeut I cannot witii- 
out something more than a smile moot the question which 
of the two things was the more impracticable, for a mind 
so eminently original to compose another man's thoughts 
and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to 
imitate the death of Abel ? Methinks I see his grand and 
noble countenance a^ at the moment when having dispatch- 
ed my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I has- 
tened to him with my manuscript — that look of humorous 
despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and 
then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling 
with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole 
scheme — which broke up in a laugii ; and the Ancient 
Mariner was written instead. 

Years afterwards, however, the draft of the plan and pro- 
posed incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favor 
in the eyes of more than one person, whose judgmeut on a 
poetic work could not but have weighed with me, even 
though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same 
Bcale, as a make- weight; and ] determined on c(nnmencing 



322 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

anew, and composing the whole in stanzas, and made some 
progress in realizing this intention, when adverse gules drove 
my bark off the " Fortunate Isles" of tiie Muses: and then 
other and more momentous interests prompted a different 
voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have in 
vain tried to recover the lines from the palimpsest tablet 
of my inemory; and I can only offer the inti'oductory 
stanza, which had been committed to writuig for the pur- 
pose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre, as a 
specimen. 

Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 

That leafy twine his only dress ! 

A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 

By moonlight, in a wilderness. 

The moon was bright, the air was free, 

And fruits and flowers together grew 

On many a shrub and many a tree ; 

And all put on a gentle hue 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate, where, they say, 

The night is more beloved than day. 

But who that beauteous Boy beguiled. 

That beauteous Boy to linger here 1 

Alone, by night, a little child, 

In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? 

CANTO II. 

" A LITTLE further, my father, yet a little 
'^ further, and we shall come into the open 
nioonliixht." Their road was throuQ-h a forest of 
fir-trees ; at its entrance the trees stood at distances 
from each other, and the path was broad, and the 
moonlight and the moonlight shadows reposed upon 
it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. 
But soon the path winded and became narrow ; the 
sim at high noon sometimes speckled, but never il- 
lumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern. 

" It is dark, O my father !" said Enos, " but the 
path under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall 
soon come out into the open moonlight. ' 



THE WANDER lAGS OF CAIN. 323 

"Lead on, my child!" said Cain; "guide me, 
little child !" And the innocent little child clasped 
a finger of the hand which had murdered the right- 
eous Abel, and he guided his father. "The fir 
branches drip upon thee, my son." "Yea, plea- 
santly, father, for I ran fast and eageily to bring 
thee the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not 
yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed 
on these fir-trees ! they leap from bough to bough, 
and the old squirrels play round their young ones 
in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, 
my father, that I might play with them, but they 
leaped away from the branches, even to the slender 
twigs did they leap, and in a moment I beheld them 
on another tree. Why, my father, would they 
not play with me ? I would be good to them as 
thou art good to me : and I groaned to them even 
as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and 
when thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I 
stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at me ?" Then 
Cain stopped, and stifling his groans, he sank to the 
earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness be- 
side him. 

And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, 
and said, " The Mighty One that persecuteth me is 
on this side and on that ; he pursueth my soul like 
the wind, like the sand-blast he passeth through 
me ; he is around me even as the air ! O that I 
might be utterly no more ! I desire to die — yea, the 
things that never had life, neither move they upon 
the earth — behold! they seem precious to mine 
eyes. that a man might live without the breath 
of his nostrils. So I might abide in darkness and 
blackness, and an empty space ! Yea, I would he 



324 T 11 E VV A N D E R I N G S OK CAIN. 

down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my 
limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the 
lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst 
he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth afar off 
hath a voice ; and the clouds in heaven look terribly 
on me ; the Mighty One who is against me speak- 
eth in the wind of the cedar grove ; and in silence 
am I dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, 
" Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way 
from the place where I found the cake and the 
pitcher." 

And Cain said, " How knowest thou?" 
And the child answered, " Behold the bare rocks 
are a few of thy strides distant from the forest ; and 
while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I 
heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his 
father as if he would raise him ; and Cain being 
faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and press- 
ed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood up- 
right and followed the child. 

The path was dark till within three strides' length 
of its termination, when it turned suddenly; the 
thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moon- 
iio-ht appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. 
Enos ran before, and stood in the open air ; and 
when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness, 
the child was affrighted. For the mighty hmbs of 
Cain were wasted as by fire ; his hair was as the 
matted curls on the bison's forehead, and so glared 
his fierce and sullen eye beneath ; and the black 
abundant locks on either side, a rank and tangled 
mass, were stained and scorched as though the 
grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend 
them ; and his countenance told in a strange and 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 325 

terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, 
and were still to continue to be. 

The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye 
could reach it was desolate : the bare rocks faced 
each other, and left a long and Avide interval of thin 
white sand. You might wander on, and look round 
and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks 
and discover nothino- that acknowledged the influ- 
ence of the seasons. There was no spring, no sum- 
mer, no autumn : and the winter's snow, that would 
have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and 
scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised 
himself over this desert ; but the huge serpent often 
hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and 
the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within 
the coils of the serpent. The pointed and shattered 
summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude 
mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophe- 
sy mutely of things that then were not ; steeples, 
and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As 
far from the wood as a boy might swing a pebble of 
the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small 
distance from the main ridge. It had been precipi- 
tated there perhaps by the groan which the Earth 
uttered when our first father fell. Before you ap- 
proached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but 
its base slanted from its point, and between its point 
and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It 
was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, 
and to this place he led his father. But ere they 
had reached the rock they beheld a human Shape ; 
his back was towards them, and they were advanc- 
ing unperceived, when they heard him smite his 
breast, and cry aloud, " Woe is me ! woe is me ! I 

2iJ 



326 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

must never die again, and yet I am perishing with 
thirst and hmiger." 

PalUd, as the reflection of the sheeted hofhtnino* 
on the heavj^-sailing night-cloud, became the face of 
Cain : but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy- 
skin, his father's robe, and laised his eyes to his fa- 
ther, and listening whispered, "Ere yet I could 
speak, I am sure, my father, that I heard that 
voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a 
sweet voice! 0, my father! this is it:" and Cain 
trembled exceedingl3^ The voice was sweet indeed, 
but it was thin and querulous, like that of a feeble 
slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet cannot 
refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, 
behold ! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly 
round the base of the rock, stood before the stran- 
ger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape 
shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, 
that his limbs and face were those of his brother 
Abel, whom he had killed ! And Cain stood like 
one who struggles in his sleep, because of the ex- 
ceeding terribleness of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, 
the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, 
and cried out with a bitter outcry, " Thou eldest 
born of Adam, w^hom Ev^e, my mother, brought 
forth, cease to torment me ! I was feeding my 
flocks in green pastures, by the side of quiet rivers, 
and thou killedst me ; and now I am in misery." 
Then Cciin closed his eyes, and hid them with his 
hands ; and again he opened his eyes, and looked 
around him, and said to Enos, " What beholdest 
thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?" " Yes, 
my father ; I beheld a man m unclean garments, 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 327 

and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." 
Then Cain raised up the Shape that was like Abel, 
and said ; — " The Creator of our father, who had 
respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore 
hath he forsaken thee ?'' Then the Shape shrieked 
a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked 
skin was like the white sands beneath their feet : 
and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself 
on his face upon the sand that was black with the 
shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside 
him : the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. 
They were all three under the rock, and within the 
shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself 
up, and spake to the child: "I know where the cold 
waters are, but I may not drink, Avherefore then didst 
thou take away my pitcher ?" But Cain said, " Didst 
thou not find favor in the sight of the Lord thy 
God ?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of 
the livino- only, the dead have another God." Then 
the child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed ; but 
Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. " Wretched 
shall they be all the days of their mortal life," ex- 
claimed the Shape, " who sacrifice worthy and ac- 
ceptable sacrifices to the God of the de-ad : but 
after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was 
well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel 
wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away 
from his power and his dominion." Having uttered 
these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the 
sands: and Cain said in his heart, "The curse of 
the Lord is on me ; but who is the God of th.e 
dead?" and he ran after the Shape, and the Shnpe 
fled shrieking over the sands, and the san(# rose 
like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the 



328 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

feet of him that was hke Abel disturbed not the 
sands. He greatly outran Cain, and turning short, 
he wheeled round, and came again to the rock 
where they had been sitting, and where Enos still 
stood; and the child caught hold of his garment 
as he passed by, and he fell upon the ground. 
And Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, 
"He has passed into the dark woods," and he 
walked slowly back to the rocks ; and when he 
reached it the child told him that he had caught 
hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the 
man had fallen upon the ground : and Cain once 
more sate beside him, and said, " Abel, my brother, 
I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within 
me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pas- 
tures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, 
that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is 
the Cxod of the dead ? where doth he make his 
dwelling ? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him ? 
for I have offered, but have not been received ; I 
have prayed ; and have not been heard ; and how 
can I be afflicted more than I already am ?" The 
Shape arose and answered, " O that thou had hadst 
pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, 
Son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee!" 

And they three passed over the white sands be- 
tween the rocks, silent as the shadows. 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 329 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 

A FEELING of sadness, a peculiar melancholy, 
is wont to take possession of me alike in spring 
and in autumn. But in spring it is the melancholy 
of hope ; in autumn it is the melancholy of resigna- 
tion. As I was journeying on foot through the 
Apennine, I fell in with a pilgrim in whom the 
spring and the autumn and the melancholy of both 
seemed to have combined. In his discourse there 
were the freshness and the colors of April : 

Qual ramicel a ramo, 
Tal da pensier pensiero 
In lui germogliava. 

But as I gazed on his whole form and figure, I be- 
thought me of the not unlovely decays, both of age 
and of the late season, in the stately elm, after the 
clusters have been plucked from its entwining vines, 
and the vines are as bands of dried withies around 
its trunk and branches. Even so there was a me- 
mory on his smooth and ample forehead, which 
blended with the dedication of his steady eyes, that 
still looked — I know not, whether upward, or far 
onward, or rather to the line of meeting where the 
sky rests upon the distance. But how may I ex- 
press that dimness of abstraction which lay on the 
lustre of the pilgrim's eyes like the flitting tarnish 
from the breath of a sigh on a silver mirror ! and 
which accorded with their slow and reluctant move- 
ment, whenever he turned them to any object on the 
right hand or on the left ? It seemed, methought, as 
if there lay upon the brightness a shadowy presence 
of disappointments now unfelt, but never forgotten. 

29* 



330 ALLEGORIC VISION. 

It was at once the melancholy of hope and of resig- 
nation. 

We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a sud- 
den tempest of wind and rain forced us to seek pro- 
tection in the vaulted door- way of a lone chapelry ; 
and we sate face to face each on the stone bench 
alonof-side the low, weather-stained wall, and as 
close as possible to the massy door. 

After a pause of silence : Even thus, said he, lib«e 
two strangers that have fled to the same shelter from 
the same storm, not seldom do Despair and Hope 
meet for the first time in the porch of Death ! All 
extremes meet, I answered ; but yours was a strange 
and visionary thought. The better then doth it be- 
seem both the place and me, he replied. From a 
Visionary wilt thou hear a Vision ? Mark that vivid 
flash through this torrent of rain ! Fire and water. 
Even here thy adage holds true, and its truth is the 
moral of my Vision. I entreated him to proceed. 
Sloping his face toward the arch, and yet averting 
his eye from it, he seemed* to seek and prepare his 
words : till listening to the wind that echoed within 
the hollow edifice, and to the rain without, 

Which stole on his thoughts with its twofold sound, 
The clash hard by and the murmur all round, 

he gradually sank away, alike from me and from 
his own purpose, and amid the gloom of the storm, 
and in the duskiness of that place, he sate like an 
emblem on a rich man's sepulchre, or like a mourn- 
er on the sodded grave of an only one — an aged 
mourner, who is watching the waned moon and sor- 
roweth not. Starting at length from his brief trance 
of abstraction, with courtesy and an atoning smile 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 331 

he renewed his discourse, and commenced his 
parable. 

During one of those short furloughs from the 
service of the body, which the soul may sometimes 
obtain even in this its militant state, I found myself 
in a vast plain, which I immediately knew to be the 
Valley of Life. It possessed an astonishing diversi- 
ty of soils ; here was a sunny spot and there a dark 
one, forming just such a mixture of sunshine and 
shade, as we may have observed on the mountains' 
side in an April day, when the thin broken clouds 
are scattered over heaven. Almost in the very en- 
trance of the valley stood a large and gloomy pile, 
into which I seemed constrained to enter. Every 
part of the building was crowded with tawdry orna- 
ments and fantastic deformity. On every window 
was portrayed, in glaring and inelegant colors, some 
horrible tale, or preternatural incident, so that not a 
ray of hght could enter, untinged by the medium 
through which it passed. The body of the building 
was full of people, some of them dancing, in and 
out, in unintelligible figures, with strange ceremonies 
and antic merriment, while others seemed convulsed 
with horror, or pining in mad melancholy? Inter- 
mino-led with these I observed a number of men 
clothed in ceremonial robes, who appeared now to 
marshal the various groups, and to direct their 
movements ; and now with menacing countenances, 
to drag some reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed 
of iron bars intercrossed, which formed at the same 
time an immense cage, and the shape of a human 
Colossus. 

I stood for a while lost in wonder what these 
things might mean ; when lo ! one of the directors 



332 ALLEGORIC VISION. 

came up to me, and with a stern and reproachful 
look bade me uncover my head, for that the pUice 
into which I had entered was the temple of the 
only true Religion, in the holier recesses of which 
the great Goddess personally resided. Himself too 
he bade me reverence, as the consecrated minister 
of her rites. Awe-struck by the name of Religion, 
I bowed before the priest, and humbly and earnestly 
entreated him to conduct me into her presence. 
He assented. Offerings he took from .me, with 
mystic sprinklings of water and with salt he purified 
and with strange sufflations he exorcised me ; and 
then led me through many a dark and winding 
alley, the dew-damps of which chilled my flesh, 
and the hollow echoes under my feet, mingled, me- 
thoufrht, with moaninsjs, affrighted me. At lensrth 
we entered a large hall, without window, or spiracle, 
or lamp. The asylum and dormitory it seemed of 
perennial night — only that the walls were brought 
to the eye by a number of self-luminous inscriptions 
in letters of a pale sepulchral light, which held 
strange neutrality with the darkness, on the verge 
of which it kept its rayless vigil. I could read 
them, methought ; but though each of the words 
taken separately I seemed to understand, yet when 
I took them in sentences, they were riddles and in- 
comprehensible. As I stood meditating on these 
hard sayings, my guide thus addressed me : — 
" Read and believe : these are mysteries !" — At 
the extremity of the vast hall the Goddess was 
placed. Her features, blended with darkness, rose 
out to my view, terrible, yet vacant. I prostrated 
myself before her, and then retired with my guide, 
soul- withered, and wondering, and dissatisfied. 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 333 

As I re-entered the body of the temple, I heard 
a deep buzz as of discontent. A few whose eyes 
were bright, and either piercing or steady, and 
whose ample foreheads, with the weighty bar, ridge- 
like, above the eye-brows, bespoke observation fol- 
lowed by meditative thought; and a much larger 
number, who were enraged by the severity and in- 
solence of the priests in exacting their offerings, had 
collected in one tumultuous group, and with a con- 
fused outcry of " This is the Temple of Supersti- 
tion !" after much contumely, and turmoil, and cruel 
mal-treatment on all sides, rushed out of the pile : 
and I, methought, joined them. 

We speeded from the Temple with hasty steps, 
and had now nearly gone round half the valley, 
when we were addressed by a woman, tall beyond 
the stature of mortals, and with a something more 
than human in her countenance and mien, Avhich 
yet could by mortals be only felt, not conveyed by 
words or intelligibly distinguished. Deep reflec- 
tion, animated by ardent feelings, was displayed in 
them ; and hope, without its uncertainty, and a 
something more than all these, which I understood 
not, but which yet seemed to blend all these into a 
divine unity of expression. Her garments were 
white and matronly, and of the simplest texture. 
We inquired her name. "My name," she replied, 
" is Religion." 

The more numerous part of our company, affright- 
ed by the very sound, and sore from recent impos- 
tures or sorceries, hurried onwards and examined no 
farther. A few of us, struck by the manifest oppo- 
sition of her form and manners to those of the living 
Idol, whom we had so recently abjured, agreed to 



334 ALLEGORIC VISION. 

follow her, though with cautious circumspection. 
She led us to an eminence in the midst of the val- 
ley, from the top of which we could command the 
whole plain, and observe the relation of the different 
parts to each other, and of each to the whole, and 
of all to each. She then gave us an optic-glass, 
which assisted without contradictinm- our natural 

o 

vision, and enabled us to see far beyond the limits 
of the Valley of Life ; though our eye even thus 
assisted permitted us only to behold a light and a 
glory, but what we could not descry, save only that 
it was, and that it was most glorious. 

And now with the rapid transition of a dream, I 
had overtaken and rejoined the more numerous 
party, who had abruptl}^ left us, indignant at the 
very name of Religion. They journeyed on, goading 
each other with remembrances of past oppressions, 
and never looking back, till in the eagerness to re- 
cede from the Temple of Superstition they had 
rounded the whole circle of the valley. And lo ! 
there faced us the mouth of a vast cavern, at the 
base of a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, the 
interior side of which, unknown to them, and unsus- 
pected, formed the extreme and backward wall of 
the Temple. An impatient crowd, we entered the 
vast and dusky cave, which was the only perfora- 
tion of the precipice. At the mouth of the cave 
sate two figures ; the first, by her dress and ges- 
tures, I knew to be Sensuality; the second form, 
from the fierceness of his demeanor, and the brutal 
scornfulness of his looks, declared himself to be the 
monster Blasphemy. He uttered big Avords, and 
yet ever and anon I observed that he turned pale 
at his own courage. We entered. Some remained 



ALLEGORIC VISION. 335 

in the opening of the cave, with the one or the other 
of its guardians. The rest, and I among them, 
pressed on, till we reached an ample chamber, that 
seemed the centre of the rock. The climate of the 
place was unnaturally cold. 

In the furthest distance of the chamber sate an 
old dim-eyed man, poring with a microscope over 
the torso of a statue which had neither basis, nor 
feet, nor head ; but on its breast was carved Na- 
ture ! To this he continually applied his glass, and 
seemed enraptured with the various inequalities 
which it rendered visible on the seemingly pohshed 
surface of the marble. — Yet evermore was this de- 
light and triumph followed by expressions of hatred, 
and vehement railing against a Being, who yet, he 
assured us, had no existence. This mystery sud- 
denly recalled to me what I had read in the holiest 
recess of the temple of Superstition. The old man 
spake in divers tongues, and continued to utter other 
and most strange mysteries. Among the rest he 
talked much and vehemently concerning an infinite 
series of causes and effects, which he explained to 
be — a string of blind men, the last of whom caught 
hold of the skirt of the one before him, he of the 
next, and so on, till they were all out of sight ; and 
that they all walked infallibly straight, without 
making one false step, though all were alike blind. 
Methought I borrowed courage from surprise, and 
asked him— Who then is at the head to guide 
them? He looked at me with ineffable contempt, 
not unmixed with an angry suspicion, and then re- 
plied, " No one." The string of blind men went on 
for ever without any beginning ; for although one 
blind man could not move without stumbling, yet 



336 NEW THOUGHTS 

infinite blindness supplied the want of sight. I 
burst into laughter, which instantly turned to terror 
— for as he started forward in rage, I caught a 
glimpse of him from behind ; and lo ! I beheld a 
monster bi-form and Janus-headed, in the hinder 
face and shape of which I instantly recognised the 
dread countenance of Superstition — and in the ter- 
ror I awoke. 



THE IMPROVISATORE : 

OR, " JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, JOHN." 

Scene — A spacious dratving-roovi, with music-room adjoining. 

Katharine. 
VT/^HAT are the words ? 

Eliza. Ask our friend, the Iraprovisatore ; 
here ne comes. Kate has a favor to ask of you, 
Sir ; it is that you will repeat the ballad that Mr. 

sang so sweetly. 

Friend. It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do 
not recollect the words distinctly. The moral of 
them, however, I take to be this : — 

Love would remain the same if true, 
When we were neither young nor new ; 
Yea, and in all within the will that came, 
By the same proofs would show itself the same. 

EUz. What are the lines you repeated from 
Beaumont and Fletcher, which my mother admired 
so much ? It begins with something about two vines 
so close that their tendrils intermingle. 

Fri. You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in 
**The Elder Brother." 



OxN OLD SUBJECTS. 337 

We'll live together, like two neighboring vines, 
Circling our souls and loves in one another ! 
We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit ; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one gi-ief mourn; 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 

Kath. A precious boon, that would go far to re- 
concile one to old age — this love — if true ! But is 
there any such true love ? 

Fri. I hope so. 

Kath. But do you believe it ? 

Eliz. (eagerly) I am sure he does. 

Fri. From a man turned of fifty, Katharine, 
imagine, expects a less confident answer. 

Kath. A more sincere one, perhaps. 

Fri. Even though he should have obtained the 
nick-name of Improvisatore, by perpetrating cha- 
rades and extempore verses at Christmas times ? 

Eliz. Nay, but be serious. 

Fri. Serious ! Doubtless. A grave personage of 
my years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, 
cannot well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suspect, 
would be for them to remain so. It will be asked 
whether I am not the " elderly gentleman " who 
sate *' despairing beside a clear stream,'' with a 
willow for his wig-block. 

Eliz. Say another word, and we will call it down- 
right affectation. 

Kath. No ! we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, 
and ask pardon for our presumption in expecting 
that Mr. would waste his sense on two insigni- 
ficant gills. 

Fri. Well, well, I will be serious. Hem ! Now 
then commences the discourse ; Mr. Moore's song 
beino' the text. Love, as distino^uished from Friend- 



338 NEW THOUGHTS 

ship, on the one hand, and from the passion that too 
often usurps its name, on the other — 

Lucius [Eliza's brother, who had just joined the 
trio, in a ivhis]jer to the Friend). But is not Love 
the union of both ? 

Fri. [aside to Lucius). He never loved who thinks 
so. 

Eliz. Brother, we don't want you. There ! Mrs. 
H. cannot arrange the flower-vase without you. 
Thank you, Mrs. Hartman. 

Luc. I'll have my revenge ! I know what I will say ! 

Eliz. Off! off! Now, dear sir, — Love, you were 
saying— 

Fri. Hush ! Preaching, you mean, Eliza. 

Eliz. {impatiently). Pshaw ! 

Fri. Well, then, I was saying that love, truly 
such, is itself not the most common thing in the 
world : and mutual love still less so. But that 
enduring personal attachment, so beautifully deline- 
ated by Erin's sweet melodist, and still more touch- 
ingly, perhaps, in the well-known ballad, " John 
Anderson, my Jo, John," in addition to a depth and 
constancy of character of no every-day occurrence, 
supposes a peculiar sensibility and tenderness of 
nature ; a constitutional communicativeness and ut- 
terancy of heart and soul ; a delight in the detail of 
sympathy, in the outward and visible signs of the 
sacrament within — to count, as it were, the pulses 
of the life of love. But above all, it supposes a 
soul which, even in the pride and summer-tide of life 
— even in the lustihood of health and strength, had 
felt oftenest and prized highest, that which age can- 
not take away, and which, in all our lovings, is the 
Love : — 



ON OLD SUBJECTS. 339 

Elk. There is something here [pointing to lier 
heart) that seems to imderstand you, but wants the 
word that would make it understand itself. 

Kath. 1, too, seem to feel what you mean. In- 
terpret the feeling for us. 

Fri. I mean that willing sense of the un- 

sufficingness of the self for itself, which predisposes 
a generous nature to see, in the total being of ano- 
ther, the supplement and completion of its own ; — 
that quiet perpetual seeking which the presence of 
the beloved object modulates, not suspends, where 
the heart momently finds, and, finding, again seeks 
on ;— -lastly, when " life's changeful orb has passed 
the full," a confirmed faith in the nobleness of hu- 
manity, thus brought home, and pressed, as it were, 
to the very bosom of hourly experience ; it supposes, 
I say, a heartfelt reverence for worth, not the less 
deep because divested of its solemnity by habit, by 
familiarity, by mutual infirmities, and even by a feel- 
ing of modesty which will arise in delicate minds, 
when they are conscious of possessing the same or 
the correspondent excellence in their own characters. 
In short, there must be a mind which, while it feels 
the beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its 
own, and by right of love appropriates it, can call 
Goodness its play-fellow ; and dares make sport of 
time and infirmity, while, in the person of a thou- 
sand-foldly endeared partner, we feel for aged 
virtue the caressing fondness that belongs to 
the innocence of childhood, and repeat the same 
attentions and tender courtesies which had been 
dictated by the same affection to the same object 
when attired in feminine loveliness, or in manly 
beauty. 



340 NEW THOUGHTS 

Eliz. What a sootliing — what an elevating 
til ought ! 

Kath. If it be not only a mere fancy. 

Fri. At all events, these qualities which I have 
enumerated, are rarely found united in a single in- 
dividual. How much more rare must it be that 
two such individuals should meet together in this 
wide world under circumstances that admit of their 
union as Husband and Wife ! A person may be 
highly estimable on the whole, nay, amiable as 
neighbor, friend, housemate — in short, in all the 
concentric circles of attachment, save only the last 
and inmost; and yet from how many causes be es- 
tranged from the highest perfection in this ! Pride, 
coldness, or fastidiousness of nature, worldly cares, 
an anxious or ambitious disposition, a passion for 
display, a sullen temper, — one or the other, — too 
often proves " the dead fly in the compost of 
spices," and any one is enough to unfit it for the 
precious balm of unction. For some mighty good 
sort of people, too, there is not seldom a sort of sa- 
turnine, or, if you will, ursine vanity, that keeps it- 
self alive by sucking the paws of its own self-im- 
portance. And as this high sense, or rather sensa- 
tion of their own value is, for the most part, ground- 
ed on negative qualities, so they have no better 
means of preserving the same than by negatives — 
that is, by doing or saying anything, that might be 
put down for fond, silly, or nonsensical ; or (to use 
their own phrase) by never forgetting themselves, 
which some of their acquaintance are uncharitable 
enough to think the most worthless object they 
could be employed in remembering. 

Eliz. {in anstuer to a whisper from Katharine). 



O N O L D S U B J E C T S . ^ 341 

To a hair ! He must have sate for it himself. Save 
me from such folks ! Bat they are out of the ques- 
tion. 

Fri. True ! but the same effect is produced in 
thousands by the too general insensibility to a very 
important truth ; this, namely, that the misery of 
human life is made up of large masses, each sepa- 
rated from the other by certain intervals. One 
year, the death of a child ; years after, a failure in 
trade : after another longer or shorter interval, a 
daughter may have married unhappily ; — in all but 
the singularly unfortunate, the integral parts that 
compose the sum total of the unhappincss of a man's 
life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. 
The happiness of life, on the contrary, is made up 
of minute fractions — the little, soon-forgotten chari- 
ties of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt com- 
pliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the 
countless other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought 
and genial feeling. 

Kath. Well, Sir ; you have said quite enough 
to make me despair of finding a " John Anderson, 
my Jo, John," with whom to totter down the hill 
of' fife. 

Fri. Not so! Good men are not, 1 trust, so 
much scarcer than good women, but that what an- 
other would find in you, you may hope to find in 
another. But well, however, may that boon be 
rare, the possession of which would be more than 
an adequate reward for the rarest virtue. 

Eliz. Surely he, who has described it so well, 
must have possessed it ? 

Fri. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and 
had believingly anticipated and not found it, how 
30* 



342 NEWTHOUGHTS 

bitter the disappointment ! (Then, after a pause of 
a few minutes), 

Answer, ex improviso. 
Yes, yes, that boon, hfe's richest treat. 
He had, or fancied that he had ; 
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit — 

The fancy made him glad ! 
Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish. 
The boon, prefigured in his earhest wish, 
The fair fulfihnent of his poesy, 
When his young heart first yearned for sympathy ! 

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain 

Unnourished wane ; 
Faith asks her daily bread, 
And Fancy must be fed. 
Now so it chanced — from wet or dry, 
It boots not how — I know not why — 
She missed her wonted food ; and quickly 
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. 
Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay. 
His faith was fixed, his heart all ebb and flow ; 
Or like a bark, in som j half-sheltered bay, 
Above its anchor driving to and fro. 
That boon, which but to have possest 
In a belief, gave life a zest — 
Uncertain both what it had been, 
And if by error lost, or luck ; 
And what it was ; — an evergreen 
Which some insidious blight had struck. 
Or annual flower, which, past its blow. 
No vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 
Uncertain, and afraid to know. 



O N O L D S U B J E C T S . 343 

Doubts tossed him to and fro ; 
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive, 
Like babes bewildered in the snow, 
That ding and huddle from the cold 
In hollow tree or ruined fold. 

Those sparkling colors, once his boast, 

Fading one by one away, 
Thin and hueless as a ghost. 

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay : 
111 at distance, worse when near, 
Telling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
Where was it, then, the sociable sprite 
That crowned the Poet's cup and decked his dish ! 
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish, 
Itself a substance by no other right 
But that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
It dimmed his eye, it darkened on his brow 
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow! 

Thank Heaven ! 'tis not so now. 

O bliss of blissful hours ! 

The boon of Heaven's decreeing. 

While yet in Eden's bowers 

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate ! 

The one sweet plant, which piteoiis Heaven agreeing, 

They bore with them, thro' Eden's closing gate ! 

Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose ! 

Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows 

When passion's flow^ers all fall or fade ; 

If this were ever his, in outward being, 

Or but his own true love's projected shade, 

Now that at length by certain proof he knows, 

That whether real or a magic show, 



344 M I S C E L L A N E O U S I' U E .M S 

Whate'er it was, it is no longer so ; 
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low. 
Yet, Lady ! deem him not unblest ; 
The certainty that hope struck dead, 
Hath left contentment in her stead ; 
And tliat is next to best! 



THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 



O' 



|F late, in one of those most weary hours, 
When life seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known. 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And, from the numbing spell to win relief. 
Called on the past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief or glee, 
I sate and cowered o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watched the dull continuous ache. 
Which, all else slumb'ring, seemed alone to wake ; 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal, 
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, 

The love, the joyance, and the gallantry ! 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm. 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging from a mist ; or like a stream 
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep. 

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's 
dream. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 345 

Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 

The picture stole upon my inward sight. 

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, 

As though an infant's finger touched my breast. 

And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 

All spirits of power that once had stirred my thought 

In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 

Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from above, 

Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 

Or lent a lustre" to the earnest scan 

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 

AVild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 

Rehearsed their w^ar-spell to the winds and waves ; 

Or fateful hymn of those pi'ophetic maids, 

That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 

Or minstrel lay, that cheered the baron's feast ; 

Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, 

Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, 

To high church pacing on the great saint's day. 

And many a verse which to myself I sang. 

That woke the tear yet stole away the pang. 

Of hopes which in lamenting I renewed. 

And last, a matron now, of sober mien. 

Yet radiant still and w^ith no earthly sheen, 

Whom as a faery child my childhood wooed 

Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 

Though then unconscious of herself, pardie. 

She bore no other name than Poesy ; ^ 

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee. 

That had but newly left a mother's knee, 

Prattled and played with bird, and fl )wer, and stone. 

As if with elfin playfellows well kn )wn, 

And life revealed to innocence alone. 



346 MISCELL AxXEOUS I'OEMS. 

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 

Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, 

And all awake ! And now in fixed gaze stand, 

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 

Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 

See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 

And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 

The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 

I see no longer ! I myself am there. 

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 

And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 

From the high tower, and think that there she 

dwells. 
With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 

The brightness of the world, thou once free, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills, 
And famous Arno, fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, 
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, 
And forests, where, beside his leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn. 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palhfdian palace with its storied halls ; 
Fountains, Avhere Love lies listen'ng to their falls ; 
Gardens, Avhere flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 



M I S C E L L A N E O U S J^ O E M S . 347 

With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, 
And wreaths the marble urn, or leans its head, 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ; — 
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 
Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 
See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Maeonides,"^ 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart. 
Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart.f 

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, 
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page. 
Where, half concealed, the eye of Fancy views 
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to 
thy muse. 



Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks. 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 

* Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first 
introduced the works of Homer to his countrymen. 

T I know few more striking or more interesting pi-oofs of 
the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek 
and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feehngs, 
and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commence- 
ment of the restoration of litei*ature, than the passage in the 
Filocopo of Boccaccio : where the sage instructor, Racheo, 
as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Bianco- 
fiore had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy 
Book, Ovid's Art of Love. " Incominicio Racheo a mettere 
il suo oflicio in esecuzioue con intera sollecitudine. E loro, 
in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere 
il santo libro d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, 
comeisauti fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi cuori 
accendere.'' 



348 MISCELLANEOUS 1' O E JVI S . 

Of the trim vines, some maid that half beheves 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. 
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! 



IMPROVED FROM STOLBERG.* 

ON A CATARACT FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT 
OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE. 

STROPHE. 

TINPERISHING youth ! 

Thou leapest from forth 
The cell of thy hidden nativity ; 
N'ever mortal saw 
The cradle of the strong one • 
Never mortal heard 
The gathering of his voices ; 

The deep -murmured charm of the son of the rock. 
That is lisped evermore at his slumberless fountain. 
There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 
At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 
It embosoms the roses of dawn 
It entangles the shafts of the noon, 
And into the bed of its stillness 
The moonshine sinks down as in slumber. 
That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven 
May be born in a holy twilight ! 

AMTISTROPHE. 

The wild goat in awe 

Looks up and beholds 

Above thee the cliff inaccessible ; — 

* See Note at the end of the volume. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 349 

Thou at once full -born 
Madd'nest in thy joyance, 
Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st, 
Life invulnerable. 



LOVE'S APPARITION AND EYANISHMENT. 

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE. 

~r IKE a lone Arab, old and blind, 
Some caravan had left behind. 
Who sits beside a ruined well, 
Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
And now he hangs his aged head aslant. 
And listens for a human sound — in vain ! 
And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant. 
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ; — 
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour. 
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant. 
With brow low bent, within my garden bower, 
I sate upon the couch of camomile : 
And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance. 
Flitted across the idle brain, the while 
I watched the sickly calm with aimless scope. 
In my own heart ; or that, indeed, a trance. 
Turned my eye inward — thee, genial Hope, 
Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold, 
Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold. 
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim 

Lie lifeless at my feet ! 
And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim. 
And stood beside my seat : 
31 



350 MISCELLANEOUS P O E M S , 

She bent, and kissed her sister's lips, 

As she was wont to do ; — 
Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath 
Woke just enough of life in death 

To make Hope die anew. 



Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honor- 
ed friend with my own, I solicited and obtained the per- 
mission of Professor J. H. Green to permit the insertion of 
the two following poems, by him composed. 

S. T. COLERIDGE. 

MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD. 

n^HE house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ! 

Leave study and books for the upland and dell ; 
Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care ; 
Sally forth ! Sally forth ! Let us breathe the fresh 



an' 



The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ; 
The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew ; 
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light. 
And here and there turns his eye piercing and 

bright ; 
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car, 
•.n With smiles to the morn, — for he means to go far: 
V/hile the clouds, that had newly paid court at his 

levee. 
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. 
Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling 

between 
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 351 

Witli king-cups and daisies, that all the year please, 
Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the breeze, 
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the 

way, 
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray, 
Itself its own home ; — far away ! far away ! 

The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bovver ; 
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower ; 
The bee hums of heather and breeze- wooing hill, 
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill ; 
The birds carol gladly ! — the lark mounts on high ; 
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye. 
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well. 
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell. 
The hunt is abroad ; — hark ! the horn sounds its 

note. 
And seems to invite us to regions remote. 
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound, 
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound ; 
Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he 

bounds, 
To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the 

hounds. 
Then stay not within, for on such a blest day 
We can never quit home, while with Nature we 

stray ; far away, far away ! 



CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC. 

nnHE feverous dream is past ! and I awake. 

Alone and joyless in my prison-cell, 
Again to ply the never ending toil, 



352 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And bid the task-worn memory weave again 

The tano-led threads, and ravelled skein of thouorht. 

Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life! 

The mirror of my soul, — ah ! when again 

To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope ! — 

Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell. 

Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast, — 

And the sad forms of scenes and deeds long past 

Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life, 

And pass in silent, stern procession ! — 

The storm is past ; — but in the pause and hush, 

Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine ; 

My spirit is rebuked ! — and like a mist. 

Despondency, in grey cold mantle clad. 

In phantom form gigantic floats ! — 

That dream, 
That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell. 
That calls to life the phantoms of the past, — 
Makes e'en oblivion memory's register, — 
Still swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain ! 
Again I wildly quaffed the maddening bowl, 
Again I staked my all, — again the die 
Proved traitor to my hopes ; — and 'twas for her. 
Whose love more maddened than the bowl, whose 

love. 
More dear than all, was treacherous as the die ; — 
Again I saw her with her paramour. 
Again I aimed the deadly blow, again 
I senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck, 
Myself, or her, or him ; — I heard the shriek, 
And mingled laugh, and cry of agony : 
I felt the whirl of rapid motion, — 
And hosts of fiendish shapes, uncertain seen 



MISCELLANEOUS V O EMS. 353 

In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd ; — 
They welcomed me with bitter laughs of scorn, 
They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate. — 
But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts, 
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway, — 
Again give license to my lawless will ! — 
And yet I know not, if that demon rout 
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true ; — 
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream, 
The act and working of an evil will ! — 
Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power ! 
Oh God ! take back the boon, the precious gift 
Of will mysterious. — Give me, give again, 
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs ; 
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply 
And shield against temptations, that assail 
My weak and yielding spirit ! — Madness, come ! 
The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse, 
Make me forget, and save me from myself ! 



A. CHARACTER. 

A BIRD, who for his other sins 
Had hved amongst the Jacobins ; 
Tho' like a kitten amid rats. 
Or callow tit in nest of bats, 
He much abhorred all democrats ; 
Yet nathless stood in ill report 
Of wishing ill to Church and Court, 
Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting. 
And learnt to pipe God save the King ; 

31* 



354 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Tho' each day did new feathers bring, 
All swore he had a leathern wing ; 
Kor polished wing, nor feathered tail, 
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail : 
And tho' — his tongue devoid of gall — 
He civilly assured them all ; — 
"A bird am I of Phoebus' breed, 
And on the sunflower cling and feed ; 
My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit ! 
The bats would hail him brother cit. 
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german. 
At leno^th the matter to determine, 
He publicly denounced the vermin ; 
He spared the mouse, he praised the owl ; 
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl. 
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul. 
Came in full clatter from his throat. 
Till his old nest-mates changed their note 
To hireling, traitor, and turn-coat, — 
A base apostate who had sold 
His very teeth and claws for gold ; — 
And then his feathers ! — sharp the jest — 
No doubt he feathered well his nest ! 
A Tit indeed ! aye, tit for tat — 
With place and title, brother Bat, 
We soon shall see how well he'll play 
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay !" 

Alas, poor Bird ! and ill-bestarred — 
Or rather let us say, poor Bard ! 
And henceforth quit the allegoric 

With metaphor and simile. 
For simple facts and style historic: — 
Alas, poor Bard ! no gold had he. 
Behind another's team he stept. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 355 

And plowed and sowed, while others reapt ; 

The work was his but theirs the glory, 

Sic vos non vobis, his whole story. 

Besides, whate'er he wrote or said 

Came from his heart as well as head ; 

And though he never left in lurch 

His king, his country, or his church, 

'Twas but to humor his own cynical 

Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ; 

To his own conscience only hearty, 

'Twas but by chance he served the party ; 

The self-same things had said and writ. 

Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt ; 

Content his own applause to win, 
Would never dash through thick and thin. 
And he can make, so say the wise, 
'No claim who makes no sacrifice ; — 
And bard still less : what claim had he, 
Who swore it vexed his soul to see 
So grand a cause, so proud a realm 
With Goose and Goody at the helm ; 
Who long ago had fall'n asunder 
But for their rivals' baser blunder. 
The coward whine and Frenchified 
Slaver and slang of the other side ? — 
Thus, his own whim his only bribe. 
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C. 
Contented if he could subscribe 
In fullest sense his name "EaiTjare : 
('Tis Punic Greek, for " he hath stood !") 
Whate'er the men, the cause was good ; 
And therefore with a right good will, 
Poor fool, he fights their battles still. 
Tush ! squeaked the Bats ; — a mere bravado 



356 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

To whitewash that base renegado ; 
'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad, 
His conscience for the bays he barters . — 
And true it is — as true as sad — 
These circlets of green baize he had — 
But then, alas ! they were his garters ! 

Ah ! silly Bard, unfed, untended, 
His lamp but glimmered in its socket ; 
He lived unhonored and unfriended 
With scarce a penny in his pocket : — 
Nay — though he hid it from the many — 
With scarce a pocket for his penny ; 



THE REPROOF AND REPLY. 

<' Th^IE, Mr. Coleridge ! — and can this be you ? 

Bjeak two commandments ? and in church- 
time too I 
Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain. 
The birth and parentage-recording strain ? 
Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown — 
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down. 
Letter to sweetheart — the last dying speech — 
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach ? 
You, that know better ! In broad open day. 
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away ? 
What could possess you ? Ah ! sweet youth, I fear 
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear !" 
Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought 

From fair to the Poet's thought. 

Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply : — 
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye, — 



MISCELLANEOUS POExMS. 357 

And then : 

" Fair dame ! a visionary wight, 
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white. 
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home. 
Long hath it been your poet's wont to roam. 
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense 
So rich a stream of music issued thence 
He deemed himself, as it flowed warbling on. 
Beside the vocal fount of HeHcon ! 
But when, as if to settle the concern, 
A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn. 
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn, — 
Say, can you blame ? — No ! none that saw and 

heard 
Could blame a bard, that he, thus inly stirred, 
A muse beholding in each fervent trait, 

Took Mary for Polly Hymnia ! 

Or haply as there stood beside the maid 
One loftier form in sable stole arrayed. 
If with regretful thought he hailed in thee 

, his long lost friend, Mol Pomene ! 

But most of you, soft warblings, I complain ! 
'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain 
Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout. 
And witched the air with dreams turned inside out. 



Thus all conspired — each power of eye and ear. 
And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year. 
To cheat poor me (no conjuror, God wot !) 

And 's self accomplice in the plot. 

Can you then wonder if I went astray ? 
Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ; — 
All nature day-dreams in the month of May. 



358 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And if I plucked each flower that sweetest blows, — 
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose. 
Thus, long accustomed on the twy-forked hill. 
To pluck both flower and floweret at my will ; 
The garden's maze, hke No-man's land, I tread, 
Nor common law, nor statute in my head ; 
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling. 
With autocratic hand at once repeahng 
Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing ! 

But yet from who despairs of grace ? 

There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face ! 
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue, 
That look as if they had little else to do ; 

For speaks, " Poor youth ! he's but a waif! 

The spoons all right ? the hen and chickens safe ? 
Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards — 
The Eighth Commandment was not made for 
Bards !" 



COLOGNE. 



TN Kohln, a town of monks and bones. 

And pavements fanged with murderous stones. 
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; 
I counted two and seventy stenches. 
All well defined, and several stinks ! 
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks. 
The river Rhine, it is well known. 
Doth wash your city of Cologne : 
But tell me. Nymphs ! what power divine 
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 



xMlSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 359 



ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE 
SAME CITY. 

A S I am a rhymer, 

And now at least a merry one, 
Mr. Mum's Rliudesheiraer 
And the church of St. Geryon 
Are the two things alone 
That deserve to be known 
In the body and soul-stinking town of Cologne. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

"DARRY seeks the polar ridge ; 

Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge, 
Author of works, whereof — tho' not in Dutch — 
The public little knows — the publisher too much. 



TO THE 

AUTHOR OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

"VOUR poem must eternal be, 

Dear Sir ! it cannot fail ! 
For 'tis incomprehensible, 
And without head or tail. 



360 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

METRICAL FEET. 

LESSON FOR A BOY. 

'T^ROCHEE trips from long to short; 

From long to long in solemn sort 
Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able 
Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable, 
iambics march from short to long ; — 
With a leap and a bound the swift Anapiests 

throng ; 
One syllable long, with one short at each side, 
Amphibrachys hastes wil'h a stately stride ; 
First and last being long, middle short, Amphi- 

macer 
Strikes his thijndering hoofs like a proud high- 
bred Racer. 
If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise. 
And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies ; 
Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to 

show it. 
With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent 

a poet, — 
May crown him with fame, and must win him the 

love 
Of his father on earth and his Father above. 

My dear, dear child ! 
Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not 

from its whole ridge 
See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. 

Coleridge. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 361 



TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER.* 

I. THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER DESCRIBED AND 
EXEMPLIFIED. 

CTRONGLY it bears us along in swelling and 

limitless billows, 
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and 

the Ocean. 



II. THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE DESCRIBED AND 
EXEMPLIFIED. 

TN the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery co- 
lumn ; 
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back. 



K 



TO THE YOUNG ARTIST, KAYSER OR 
KASERWERTH. 

AYSER ! to whom, as to a second self, 
Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the Elf, 
Eight Genius, hath dispensed the happy skill 
To cheer or soothe the parting friend's alas ! 
Turning the blank scroll to a magic glass. 
That makes the absent present at our will ; 
And to the shadowing of thy pencil gives 
Such seeming substance, that it almost lives : — 

Well hast thou given the thoughtful Poet's face ! 
Yet hast thou on the tablet of his mind 
A more delightful portrait left behind — 
Ev'n thy own youthful beauty, and artless grace, 

* See note at the end of the volume. 
32 



362 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Thy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee ! 

Kayser ! farewell t 
Be wise ! be happy, and forget not me. 



S 



JOB'S LUCK. 

LY Beelzebub took all occasions 
To try Job's constancy and patience ; 
He took his honors, took his health. 
He took his children, took his wealth, 
His camels, horses, asses, cows — 
And the sly Devil did not take his spouse. 

But Heaven that brings out good from evil. 
And loves to disappoint the Devil, 
Had predetermined to restore 
Twofold all Job had before. 
His children, camels, horses, cows — 
Short-sighted Devil, not to take his spouse ! 



ON A VOLUNTEER SINGER. 

^WANS sing before they die : 'twere no bad 
thing. 
Should certain persons die before they sing. 



ON AN INSIGNIFICANT. 

'HHIS Cypher lies beneath this crust, 
Whom Death created into dust. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 363 

PROFUSE KINDNESS. 

Ni'jini, ov : XaaaLv oVfo n\i )v n^ cj ■rrd:>rt:s. — Hcsiod. 

TA/'HAT a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in 

a shoal ! 
Half of it to one were worth double the whole ! 



CHARITY IN THOUGHT 

^0 praise men as good, and to take them for 
such, 
Is a grace, which no soul can mete out to a 
tittle ; — 
Of which he who has not a little too much, 

Will by Charity's gauge surely have much too 
little. 



HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF CHARITY. 

'C'RAIL creatures are we all ! To be the best. 

Is but the fewest faults to have : — 

Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest 

To God, thy conscience, and the grave. 



ON AN INFANT 

WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM. 

" I^E, rather than be called, a child of God, 

Death whispered ! with assenting nod. 
Its head upon its mother's breast. 

The Baby bowed, without demur — 
Of the kingdom of the Blest 

Possessor, not inheritor. 



364 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

ON 

BERKELEY AND FLORENCE COLERIDGE. 

WHO DIED ON THE 16tH OF JANUARY, 1834.* 

f^ FRAIL as sweet! twin buds, too ratlie to bear 

The Winter's unkind air ; 
O gifts beyond all price, no sooner given 

Than straight required by Heaven ; 
Matched jewels, vainly for a moment lent 

To deck my brow, or sent 
Untainted from the earth, as Christ's, to soar 

And add two spirits more 
To that dread band seraphic, that doth lie 

Beneath the Almighty's eye ; — 
Glorious the thought! — yet ah ! my babes, ah! still 

A father's heart ye fill ; 
Though cold ye lie in earth — though gentle death 

Hath suck'd your balmy breath, 
And the last kiss which your fair cheeks I gave 

Is buried in yon grave. 
No tears — no tears — I wish them not again ; 

To die for them was gain, 
Ere Doubt, or Fear, or Woe, or act of Sin 

Had marred God's lioflit within. 



PSYCHE. 



•T^HE butterfly the ancient Grecians made 

The soul's fair emblem, and its only name- 
But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade 
Of mortal life ! — For in this earthly frame 

* By a frieud. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 365 

Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame. 

Manifold motions making Httle speed, 

And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 

1808. 



O 



LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN 
EDUCATION. 

I'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm 
rule. 

And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, — so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks, I see them grouped in seemly show, 
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
And robes that, touching as adown they flow, 
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 
part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie, 

Love too will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
And bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes. 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
Woos back the fleeting spirit and half-supplies ; — 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to 

Love, 
Yet haply there will come a weary day. 

When overtasked at length 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 



366 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth. 
And both supporting, does the work of both. 



E coelo descendit yvoiOi treavrdv. — Juvenal. 

rp«)6i aeavxov \ — and is this the prime 

And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time ! — 

Say, canst thou make thyself? — Learn first that 

trade ; 
Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. 
What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine 



own 



What is there in thee, Man, that can be known ? — 
Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, 
A phantom dim of past and future wrought. 
Vain sister of the worm, — life, death, soul, clod — 
Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God ! 



Beareth all things.— 2 Cor. xiii. 7. 

"r^ENTLY I took that which ungently came," 

And without scorn forgave; — Do thou the 

same. 
A wrong done to thee think a cat's eye spark 
Thou would'st not see, were not thine own heart 

dark. 
Thy own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, 
Fear that — the spark self-kindled from within. 
Which blown upon will bhnd thee with its glare, 
Or smothered stifle thee with noisome air. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 367 

Clap on the extinguislier, pull up the blinds. 
And soon the ventilated spirit finds 
Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenned, 
Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, 
A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side. 
Think it God's message, and in humble pride 
With heart of oak replace it ; thine the gains — 
Give him the rotten timber for his pains ! 



COMPLAINT. 

TTOW seldom. Friend ! a good great man inherits 
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
If any man obtain that which he merits, 
Or any merit that which he obtains. 

REPROOF. 

For shame, dear Friend ! renounce this canting 

strain ! 
What would 'st thou have a good great man obtain ? 
Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — 
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? — 
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends ! 
Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 
The good great man? — three treasures, love and 

light. 
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath; — 
And three firm friends, more sure than day and 

night — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

1809. 



368 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE. 

"IVrOW ! it is gone. — Our brief hours travel post, 
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or 
How ; — 
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost 
To dwell within thee — an eternal Now ! 

1830. 



MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. 

/^OD'S child in Christ adopted,— Christ my all,— 
What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, 
rather 
Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call 
The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father ?— 
Father ! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee — 
Eternal Thou, and everlasting we. 
The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death : 
In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 
Of the true life ! — Let then earth, sea, and sky 
Make war against me ! On my front I show 
Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try 
To end my life, that can but end its woe — 
Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies ? — 
Yes ! but not his — 'tis Death itself there dies. 



EniTAfpiON ATTorPAnroN. 

C\\JJK linquara, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt 
mea — sordes 
Do morti ; — rcddo csetera, Christe ! tibi. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 369 

EPITAPH. 

gTOP, Christian Passer-by !— Stop, child of God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. — 
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; 
That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death! 
Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame 
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou 
the same! 

9th November, 1833. 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE 

TO " FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER."* 

At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles and 
coi-responding virtues of a sincere Christian, conseci'ates a 
cultivated genius and the favorable accidents of birth, opu- 
lence, and splendid connexions, it was my good fortune to 
meet, in a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in 
science or polite literature, than are commonly found col- 
lected I'ound the same table. In the course of conversa- 
tion, one of the party reminded an illustrious poet, then 
present, of some verses which he had recited that morning, 
and which had appeared in a newspaper under the name 
of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 
were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so ad- 
dressed replied, that he was rather surprised that none of 
us should have noticed or heard of the poem, as it had been 
at the time a good deal talked of in Scotland. It may be 
easily supposed, that my feelings were at this moment not 
of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one only 
knew, or suspected me to be the author ; a man who 
would have established himself in the first rank of Eng- 
land's living poets, if the Genius of our country had not 
decreed that he should rather be the first in the first rank 
of its philosophers and scientific benefactors. It appeared 
the general wish to hear the lines. As my friend chose to 
remain silent, I chose to follow his example, and Mr. 
***** recited the poem. This he could do with the 
better grace, being known to have ever been not only a 
firm and active Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican, but like- 
wise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both as a good man 
and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, he had been 
amused with the Eclogue ; as a poet he recited it ; and in 
a spirit which made it evident that he would have read 



* See page 1J9. 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 371 

and repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own name 
been attached to the imaginary object or agent. 

After the I'ecitation, our amiable host observed, that in 
his opinion Mr. * "^ * * * had over-rated the merits of the 
poetry ; but had they been tenfold gi'eater, they could not 
have compensated for that malignity of heart, which could 
alone have prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived 
that my illusti'ious friend became greatly distressed on my 
account ; but fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude 
and presence of mind enough to take up the subject with- 
out exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully it 
interested me. 

What follows, is the substance of what I then replied, 
but dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my 
intention, I said, to justify the publication, whatever its 
author's feelings might have been at the time of composing 
it. That they are calculated to call forth so severe a repro- 
bation from a good man, is not the worst feature of such 
poems. Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion 
to the pleasure which they ai-e capable of affording to vin- 
dictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers. Could it be 
supposed, though for a moment, that the author seriously 
wished what he had thus wildly imagined, even the attempt 
to palliate an inhumanity so monstrous would be an insult 
to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of considera- 
tion, whether the mood of mind, and the general state of 
sensations, in which a poet produces such vivid and fan- 
tastic images, is likely to co-exist, or is even compatible 
with that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious 
wish to realize them would pre-suppose. It had been often 
observed, and all my experience tended to confirm the ob- 
servation, that })rospects of pain and evil to others, and in 
general, all deep feelings of revenge, are commonly ex- 
pi'essed in a few words, ironically tame and mild. The 
mind under so direful and fiend-like an influence seems to 
take a morbid pleasui'e in contrasting the intensity of its 
wishes and feelings, with the slightness or levity of the ex- 
pressions by which they are hinted ; and indeed feelings 
80 intense and solitary if they were not precluded (as in 
almost all cases they would be) by a constitutional activity 
of fancy and association, and by the specific joyousness 
combined with it, would assuredly themselves preclude 



372 APOLOGETIC TREFACE. 

such activity. Passion, in its own quality, is the antago- 
nist of action ; though in an ordinaiy and natural degree the 
former alternates with the latter, and thereby revives and 
strengthens it. But the more intense and insane the pas- 
sion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the correspondent 
forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate thirst 
of revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its 
favorite object, and exercises as it were a perpetual tauto- 
logy of mind in thoughts and words, which admit of no 
adequate substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it 
moves restlessly round and round the scanty circumference, 
which it cannot leave without losing its vital element. 

There is a second character of such imaginary represen- 
tations as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to 
another, which we often see in real life, and might even 
anticipate from the nature of the mind. The images, I 
mean, that a vindictive man places before his imagination, 
will most often be taken from the realities of life ; they 
will be images of pain and suffering which he has himself 
seen inflicted on other men, and which he can fancy him- 
self as inflicting on the object of his hatred. I will suppose 
that we had heard at different times two common sailors, 
each speaking of some one who had wronged or offended 
him ; that the first with apparent violence had devoted 
every part of his adversary's body and soul to all the horrid 
phantoms and fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt 
of, and this in a rapid flow of those outrageous and wildly 
combined execrations, which too often with our lower 
classes serve for escape-valves to carry off" the excess of 
their passions, as so much superfluous steam that would 
endanger the vessel if it were retained. The other, on the 
contrary, with that sort of calmness of tone which is to the 
ear what the paleness of anger is to the eye, shall simply 
say, " If I chance to be made boatswain, as I hope I soon 
shall, and can but once get that fellow under my hand 
(and I shall be upon the watch for him), I'll tickle his 
pretty skin! I won't hurt him! oh, no! I'll only cut the 

to the liver !" I dare appeal to all present, which of 

the two they would regard as the least deceptive symptom 
of deliberate malignity ? nay, whether it would surprise 
them to see the first fellow, an hour or two afterwards, cor- 
dially shaking hands with the very man, the fractional 



ArOLOGETIC PREFACE. 373 

parts of whose body and soul he had been so charitably 
disposing of; or even perhaps risking his life for hira. 
What language Shakespeare considered characteristic of 
malignant disposition, we see in the speecli of the good- 
natured Gratiano, who spoke " an infinite deal of nothing 
more than any man in all Venice ;" 

" Too wild, too rude and bold of roice !" 

the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words reciprocally 
ran away with each other ; 



-" O be thou damned, inexorable dogl 



And for thy life let justice be accused !" 
and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shylock's 
tranquil " I stand here for Law." 

Or, to take a case mcn-e analogous to the present subject, 
should we hold it eitlier fair or charitable to believe it to 
have been Dante's serious wish, that all the persons men- 
tioned by hira, (many recently departed, and some even 
alive at the time), should actually suffer the fantastic and 
horrible punishments, to which he has sentenced them in 
his Hell and Purgatory ? Or what shall we say of the pas- 
sages in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state 
of those who, vicious themselves, have been the cause of 
vice and misery to their fellow creatures ? Could we en- 
dure for a moment to think that a spirit, like Bishop Tay- 
lor's, burning with Christian love; that a man constitu- 
tionally overflowing with pleasurable kindliness; who 
scarcely even in a casual illustration introduces the image 
of woman, child or bird, but he embalms the thought with 
so rich a tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties 
and fragments of poetry from Euripides or Simonides ; — 
can we endure to think, that a man so natured and so dis- 
ciplined, did, at the time of composing this horrible picture, 
attach a sober feeling of reality to the phrases ? or that be 
would have described in the same tone of justification, in 
the same luxuriant flow of phrases, the tortures about to be 
inflicted on a living individual by a verdict of the Star- 
Chamber? or the still more atrocious sentences executed 
on the Scotch anti-prelalists and schismatics, at the com- 
mand, and in some instances under the very eye, of the 
Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched bigot who after- 
wards dishonored and forfeited the throne of Great Britain ? 
33 



374 APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 

Or do we not rather fee] and understand, that these vio- 
lent words were mere babbles, Hashes, and electrical ap 
paritions, from the magic cauldron of a fervid and ebullient 
fancy, constantly fuelled by an unexampled opulence of 
language ? 

Were I now to have read by myself for the first time the 
poem in question, my conclusion, I fully believe, would be 
that the writer must have been some man of warm feelings 
and active fancy ; that he had j^ainted to himself the cir- 
cumstances that accompany war in so many vivid and yet 
fantastic forms, as proved that neither the images nor the 
feelings were the result of observation, or in any way de- 
rived from realities. I should judge that they were the 
product of his own seething imagination, and therefore im- 
pregnated with that pleasurable exultation which is ex- 
perienced in all energetic exertion of intellectual power ; 
that in the same mood he had generalized the causes of 
the war, and then personified the abstract and christened 
it by the name which he had been accustomed to hear 
most often associated with its management and measures. 
I should guess that the minister was in the author's mind at 
the moment of composition, as completely ana^m, avaifio- 
txapKos, as Anacreon's grasshopper, and that he had as little 
notion of a real person of flesh and blood, 

" Distinguishable in member, joint, ov limb," 

as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms, (half per- 
son, half allegory) which he has placed in the gates of 
Hell. I concluded by observing that the poem was not 
calculated to excite passion in any mind, or to make any 
impression except on poetic readers ; and that from the 
culpable levity, betrayed at the close of the eclogue by the 
grotesque union oi epigrammatic wit with allegoric per- 
sonification, in the allusion to the most fearful of thoughts, 
I should conjecture that the " rantin' Bai'die," instead of 
really believing, much less wishing, the fate sj)oken of in 
the last line, in application to any human individual, would 
shrink from passing the verdict even on the Devil himself, 
and exclaim with poor Burns, 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben : 
O wad ye take a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 375 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm Avae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n Ibr your sake! 
I need not say that these thoughts, which are here 
dilated, were in such a company only rapidly suggested. 
Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous compliment 
observed, that the defence was too good for the cause. My 
voice faltered a little, for I was somewhat agitated ; though 
not so much on my own account as for the uneasiness tlutt 
so kind and friendly a man would feel from the thought 
that he had been the occasion of distressing me. At length 
I brought out these words: " I must now confess, sir, that 
I am the author of that poem. It was written some years 
ago. I do not attempt to justify my past self, young as T 
then was; but as little as I would now write a sLilar 
poem, so far was I even then from imagining, that the lines 
would be taken as more or less than a sport of fancy. At 
all events, if I know my own heart, there was never a mo- 
ment in my existence in which I should have been more 
ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to interpose 
my own body, and defended his life at the risk of my own." 

I have prefaced the poem with this anecdote, because to 
have printed it without any remark might well have been 
understood as implying an unconditional approbation on 
my part, and this after many years' consideration. But if 
it be asked why I re-published it at all, I answer, that the 
poem had been attributed at different times to different 
other persons ; and what I had dared beget, 1 thought it 
neither manly nor honorable not to dare father. From the 
same motives I should have published perfect copies of 
two poems, the one entitled The Devil's Thoughts,* and 
the other, The Two round Spaces on the Tomb-Stone, but 
that the first three stanzas of the former, which were worth 
all the rest of the poem, and the best stanza of the remain- 
der, were written by a friend of deserved celebrity; and 
because there are passages in both, which might have 
given offence to the religious feelings of certain readers. I 
myself indeed see no reason why vulgar superstitions and 
absurd conceptions that deform the pure faith of a Christian, 
should possess a greater immuni ty from ridicule than sto- 

* See p. 3 6. 



376 APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 

ries of witches, or the fables of Greece and Rome. But 
there are those who deem it profaneuess aud irreverence to 
call an ape an ape, if it but wear a monk's cowl on its 
head ; and I would rather reason with this weakness than 
oiFend it. 

The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred, is 
found in his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judg- 
ment ; which is likewise the second in his year's course of 
sermons. Among many remarkable passages of the same 
character in those discourses, I have selected this as the 
most so: " But when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall 
appear, then Justice shall strike, and Mercy shall not hold 
her hands ; she shall strike sore strokes , and Pity shall 
not break the blow. As there are ti-easures of good things, 
so hath God a treasure of wrath and fury, and scourges 
and scorpions; aud then shall be produced the shame of 
lust and the malice of envy, and the groans of the oppress- 
ed, and the persecutions of the saints, and the cares of 
covetousness and the troubles of ambition, and the inso- 
lence of traitors, aud the violence of rebels, and the rage 
of anger, and the uneasiness of impatience, aud the restless- 
ness of unlawful desires; and by this time the monsters and 
diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when God's 
heavy hand shall press the sanies and the intolerableness, 
the obliquity and the unreasonableness, the amazement and 
the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the guilt and the 
punishment, out from all our sins, and pour them into one 
chalice, and mingle them with an infinite wrath, and make 
the wicked drink off all the vengeance, and force it down 
their unwilling throats with the violence of devils and ac- 
cursed spirits." 

That this Tai'tarean drench displays the imagination 
rather than the discretion of the compounder ; that, in short, 
this passage and others of the same kind are in a bad taste, 
few will deny at the present day. It would, doubtless, 
have more behoved the good bishop not to be wise beyond 
what is written on a subject in which Eternity is opposed 
to Time, and a death threatened, not the Negative, but the 
positive Opposite of Life ; a subject, therefore, which 
must of necessity be indescribable to the human under- 
standing in our present state. But I can neither find nor 
believe, that it evei' occurred to any reader to ground on 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 377 

Bucli passages a charge ngaiast Bisliop Taylor's Immauity 
or goodness of heart. I was not a little surprised therefore 
to find, in the Pursuits of Literature and other works, so 
horrible a sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for 
a passage iu his prose writings, as nearly parallel to this of 
Taylor's, as two passages can well be conceived to be. All 
his mei'its, as a po^t, forsooth — all the glory of having 
written the Paradise Lost, are light in the scale, nay, kick 
tiie beam, compared with the atrocious malignity of heart, 
expressed in the offensive paragraph. I remembered, in 
general, that Milton had concluded one of his works on 
Reformation, written in the fervor of his youthful imagina- 
tion, in a high poetic strain, that wanted metre only to be- 
come a lyrical poem. I remembered that in the former 
part he had formed to himself a perfect ideal of human 
virtue, a character of heroic, disinterested zeal and devo- 
tion for Truth, Religion, and public Liberty, in act and in 
suffering, in the day of triumph and in the hour of martyr- 
dom. Such spirits, as more excellent than others, he de- 
scribes as having a more excellent reward, and as distin- 
guished by a more transcendent glory; and this reward 
and this glory he displays and particularizes with an energy 
and brilliance that announced the Paradise Lost as plainly, 
as ever the bright purple clouds in the east announced the 
coming of the Sun. Milton then passes to the gloomy con- 
trast, to such men as from motives of selfish ambition and 
the lust of personal aggrandizement, should, against their 
own light, persecute truth and tlie true religion, and wil- 
fully abuse the powers and gifts entrusted to them, to 
bring vice, blindness, misery, and slavery, on their native 
country, on the very country that had trusted, enriclied, 
and honored them. Such beings, after that speedy and 
appropriate removal from their sphere of mischief which 
all good and humane men must of course desire, will, he 
takes for granted by parity of reason, meet with a punish- 
ment, an ignominy, and a retaliation, as much severer than 
other wicked men, as their gnilt and its consequences were 
more enormous. His description of this imaginary punish- 
ment presents more distinct pictures to the fancy than the 
extract from Jeremy Taylor ; but the thoughts in the latter 
are incomparably more exaggerated and horrific. All this 
I knew, but I neither remembered, nor by reference and 
32* 



378 APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 

careful re-perusal could discover, any other meaning, 
either in Milton or Tayloi-, but that good men will be re- 
warded, and the impenitent wicked punished, in propor- 
tion to their dispositions and intentional acts in this life ; 
and that if the punishment of the least wicked be fearful 
beyond conception, all words and descriptions must be so 
far true, that they must fall short of the punishment that 
awaits the transcendently wicked; Had Milton stated 
either his ideal of virtue, or of depravity, as an individual 
or individuals actually existing ? Certainly not. Is this 
representation worded historically, or only hypotheti- 
cally ? Assuredly the latter. Does he express it as his 
own wish, that after death they should suffer these tor- 
tures ? or as a general consequence, deduced from reason 
and revelation, that such will be their fate ? Again, the 
latter only. His wish is expressly confined to a speedy 
stop being put by Providence to their power of inflicting 
misery on others. But did he name or refer to any per- 
sons living or dead? No. But the calumniators of Milton 
dare say (for what will calumny not dare say?) that he 
had Laud and Strafford in his mind, while writing of re- 
morseless persecution, and the enslavement of a free 
country, from motives of selfish ambition. Now, what if 
a stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking of 
the insolencies of traitors and the violence of rebels, 
Bishop Taylor must have individualized in his mind Hamp- 
den, Hollis, Pym, Fairfax, Iretou, and Milton ? And what 
if he should take the liberty of concluding, that, in the 
after description, the Bishop was feeding and feasting his 
party-hatred, and with those individuals before the eyes of 
his imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror after horror, 
the picture of their intolerable agonies? Yet this bigot 
would have an equal right thus to criminate the one good 
and great man, as these men have to criminate the other. 
Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with equal 
truth could have said it, " that in his whole life he never 
spake against a man even that his skin should be grazed." 
He asserted this when one of his opponents (either Bishop 
Hall or his nephew) had called upon the women and chil- 
dren in the streets to take up stones and stone him (iMiltou). 
It is known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to pro- 
tect the royalists ; but even at a time when all lies would 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE 379 

have been meritorious against him, no charge was made, 
no story pretended, that he had ever directly or indirectly 
engaged or assisted iu their persecution. Oh ! methinks 
there are other and far better feelings, which sliould be ac- 
quired by the perusal of our great elder writers. When I 
have before me on the same table, the w(jrks of Hammond 
and Baxter; when I reflect with what joy and dearness 
then- blessed spirits are now loving each other; it seems a 
mournful thing that their names sliould be perverted to an 
occasion of bitterness among us, who are enjoying that 
happy mean which the human too-much on both sides was 
perhaps necessary to produce. " The tangle of delusions 
which stifled and distorted the growing tree of our well- 
being has been torn away; the parasite weeds that fed on 
its very roots have been plucked up with a salutary vio- 
lence. To us there remain only quiet duties, the constant 
care, the gradual improvement, the cautious unhazardous 
labors of the industrious though contented gardener— to 
prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one by one to remove 
from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and the caterpillar. 
But far be it from us to undervalue with light and senseless 
detraction the conscientious hardihood of our predecessors, 
or even to condemn in them that vehemence, to which the 
blessings it won for us leave us now neither temptation nor 
pretext. We ante-date the feelings, in order to criminate 
the authors of our present liberty, light, and toleration."* 

If ever two great men might seem, during their whole 
lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though neither 
of them has at any time introduced the name of the other, 
Milton and Jeremy Taylor were they. The former com- 
menced his career by attacking the Church-Liturgy and all 
set forms of prayer. The latter, but far more successfully, 
by defending both. Milton's next work was then against 
the Prelacy and the then existing Church-Government— 
Taylor's in vindication and support of them. Milton be- 
came more and more a stern republican, or rather an ad- 
vocate for that religious and moral aristocracy, which in 
his day was called republicanism, and which, even more 
than royalism itself, is the direct antipode of modern jaco- 
binism. Taylor, as more and more sceptical concerning the 

* The Friend, p. 54 (See vol. i. p. 82, 3d ed.). 



380 A r O L O G E T 1 C VRE F ACE. 

fitness of men in geucrcil f(jr power, became more ai)d more 
attached to the prerogatives of niouarcliy. From Calviiiisai 
with a still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for 
Church-Antiquity in general, Milton seems to have ended 
in an inditl'erence, if not a dislike, to all forms of ecclesiastic 
government, and to have retreated wholly into the inward 
and spiritual chni'cli-commuuion of his own spirit with the 
Light, that lighteth every man that cometh into the world, 
Taylor, with a growing reverence for authority, an increas- 
ing sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures without the 
aids of tradition and the consent of authorized interpreters, 
advanced as far in his approaches (not indeed to Popery, 
but) to Roman-Catholicism, as a conscientious minister of 
the English Church could well venture. Milton virould be, 
and would utter the same, to all, on ail occasions ; he 
would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth. Taylor would become all things to all men, if by 
any means he might benefit any ; hence he availed himself, 
in his popular writings, of opinions and repi'esentations 
which stand often in striking contrast with tlie doubts and 
convictions expressed in his more philosophical works. He 
appears, indeed, not too severely to have blamed that 
management of truth (istam falsitatem dispensativam) au- 
thorized and exemplified by almost all the fathers : Inte- 
grum omnino doctoribus et ctjetus Christiani antistitibus esse, 
ut doles verseiit, falsa veris interniisceant et imprimis re- 
ligionis hostes fallant, duramodo veritatis commodis et 
utilitati inserviant. 

The same antithesis might be carried on with the ele- 
ments of their several intellectual powers. Milton, austere, 
condensed, imaginative, supporting his truth by direct 
enunciation of moral lofty sentiment and by distinct visual 
representations, and in the same spirit overwhelming what 
he deemed falsehood by moral denunciation and a succes- 
sion of pictures appalling or repulsive. Tn his prose, so 
many metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. Taylor, 
eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one of his 
own words) agglomerative ; still more rich in images than 
Milton himself, but images of fancy and presented to the 
common and passive eye, rather than to the eye of the ima- 
gination. Whether supporting or assailing, he makes his 
way either by a)"gumeut or by ap|)eals to the affectioup, 



APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 381 

unsurpassed even by the schoolmen in subtlety, agility, 
and logic wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of tho 
fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his expressions 
and illustrations. Here words that convey feelings, and 
words that flash images, and words of abstract notion, flow 
together and whir] and rush onward like a stream, at once 
rapid and full of eddies; and yet still interfused here and 
there, we see a tongue or islet of smooth water, with some 
picture m it of earth or sky, landscape or living group of 
quiet beauty. 

Diftering, then, so widely, and almost contrariantly, 
wherein did these great men agree ? wherein did they re- 
semble each other? In genius, in learning, in unfeigned 
piety, in blameless purity of life, and in benevolent aspi- 
rations and purposes for the moral and temporal improve- 
ment of their fellow-creatures ! Both of them wrote a La- 
tin Accidence, to render education less painful to children ; 
both of them composed hymns and psalms proportioned to 
the capacity of common congregations; both, nearly at the 
same time, set the glorious example of publicly recom- 
mending and supporting general toleration, and the liberty 
both of the pulpit and the press ! In the writings of neither 
shall we find a single sentence, like those meek deliver- 
ances to God's mercy, with which Laud accompanied his 
votes for the mutilations and loathsome dungeoning of 
Leighton and others ! — nowhere such a pious prayer as we 
find in Bishop Hall's memoranda of his own life, concern- 
ing a subtle and witty atheist that so grievously perplexed 
and gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's till he prayed to 
the Lord to remove him, and behold ! his prayers were 
heard: for shortly afterward this Philistine-combatant 
went to London, and there perished of the plague in great 
misery ! In short, nowhere shall we find the least approach, 
in the lives and writings of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, 
to that guarded gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with 
which the holy brethren of the luquisition deliver over a 
condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, recommending 
him to mercy, and* hoping that the magistrate will treat 
the erring brother with all possible mildness! — the magis- 
trate, who too well knows what w(iuld be his own fate, if 
he dared offend them by acting on their recommendation. 

The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself to 



382 ArOLOGETlC PREFACE. 

characters more worthy of his attention, has let! me far 
beyond my first intention; but it is not unimportant to 
expose the false zeal which has occasioned these attacks 
on our elder patriots. It has been too much the fashion 
first to personify the Church of England, and then to speak 
of different individuals, who iu different ages have been 
rulers in that church, as if in some strange way they con- 
stituted its personal identity. Why should a clergyman of 
the present day feel interested in the defence of Laud or 
Sheldon? Surely it is sufficient for the warmest partizan 
of our establishment, that he can assert with truth, — when 
our Church persecuted, it was on mistaken pi'inciples held 
in common by all Christendom ; and at all events, far less 
culpable was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were 
maintaining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit 
afterwards shown by their successful opponents, who had 
no such excuse, and who should have been taught mercy 
by their own sufferings, and wisdom by the utter failui'« 
of the experiment in their own case. We can say, that our 
Church, apostolical in its faith, primitive in its ceremonies, 
unequalled in its liturgical forms; that our Church, which 
has kindled and displayed moi-e bright and burning lights 
of genius and learning, than all other Protestant churches 
since the reformation, was (with the single exception of 
the times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, when all 
Christians unhappily deemed a species of intolerance their 
religious duty ; that Bishops of our chux'ch were among 
the first that contended against this error; and finally, that 
since the reformation, when tolerance became a fashion, 
the Church of England, in a tolerating age, has shown her- 
self eminently tolerant, and far more so, both in spirit and 
in fact, than many of her most bitter opponents, who in-o- 
fess to deem toleration itself an insult on the rights of 
mankind! As to myself, who not only know the Church 
Establishment to be tolerant, but who see in it the great- 
est, if not the sole safe bulwark of toleration, I feel no 
necessity of defending or palliating oppressions under the 
two Chai'leses, in order to exclaim with a full and fervent 
heart, Esto perpetua ! 



N T E S . 



Note referred to in p. 155. 
Frederica Brunii's OJe, " Chamouui at Sun-rise," which 
appears to have suggested part of the " Hymn before Sun- 
rise, in the Vale of Chamouui," is gis'en here that the 
reader may have an opportunity of comparing the two 
poems. 

Alls tiefem Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains 
Erbliok' ich belDend dicVi, Scheitel der Ewigkeit, 
Bleiidender Gipfel, von dessen Hohe 
Ahndend meiu Geist ins xinendliche schwebet! 

Wer senkte den Pfeiler tief in der Erde scliooss, 
Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deme uias.«e stiitzt? 
Wer thiirmte hocli in des Aethers WSlbiin? 
Machtig und kiihn dein umstrahltes Antlitz'^ 

Wer goss Euch hoch aus der ewigen Winter's Reich, 
O Zackeustrome, niit DonnergetiJs' horab ? 
Und wer gebietet laiifc mit der AUmacht Stimme : 
"Hier sollen ruhen die starrenden Wogen?" 

Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn? 
Wer kranzt mit Bliithen des ewigen Frostes Saum? 
Weni tont in schrecklichen Harmonieen, 
Wilder Arveiron, dein Wogenfuramen 

Jehovah! Jehovah I kracht's im berstenden Eis; 
Lavinendonner rolleu's die Kluft hinab : 
Jehovah rauscht's in den heilen Wipfeln, 
Fliistert's an reiselnden Silberbiicheu. 

Note referred to in p. 291. 
The lines of Friedrieh Matthisson, forming the com- 
mencement of his " Milesisches Mahrchen," are these : 
Ein Milesisches Mahrchen, Adonide ' 
Unter heiligen Lorbeerwipfeln glanzte 
Hoch auf rausehendem Vorgebirg' ein Tempel. 
Aus den Fluten chrub, von Pan gesegnet, 
Im gediifte der Ferae sich ein Eiland. 
Oft, in mondlicher Dammrimg, schwebt' ein Nachen 
• Vom Gestade des heerdenreiclien Eilands 
Znr umwaldeten Bneht, wo sich ein Steinpfad 
Zwischen Mirten zum Tempelhain emporwand, 
Dort, im Rosengebiisch, der Huldgottinnen 
Marmorgruppe geheiligt, fleht' oft einsam 
Eine Priesterin, reizend wie Apelb'S 
Seine Grazien ii.alt, zum Sohn Cytherens, 




384 NOTES. 

Ihren Kallias freundlich zu unischweben 
Und durch Wogen und Dunkel ihn zu leiten, 
Bis der nacbtliche Schiffer, woaneschauernd, 
An den Busen ihr sank. 

Note referrei to in p. 348. 
The poem of Count Stolberg, of which the '' Lines on a 
Cataract " are an expansion, is here pi'esented to the 
reader. 

Unsterblicher Jiingling! 

Du stromest hervor 

Aus der Felsenkluft. 

Kein sterblicher sah 

Die Wiege des Starken: 

Es horte kein Ohr 

Das Lallen des Edlen im sprudelnden Quell. 

Dicb kleidet die Sonne 

In Strahlen des Kuhmesl 

Sie mahlet mit Farben des himmlischen Bogens 

Die schwebenden Wolken der staiibenden Fluth. 

Note referred to in p. 361. 
Schiller's verses are as follows: 

DER EPISCHE HEXAMETER. 
Schwindelnd tragt er dich fort auf rastlos stromenden Wogen ; 
Hinter dir siehst dn, du siehst vor dir nur Himmel und Meer. 

DAS DISTICHON. 
Im Hexameter steigt des Spring-qxiells fliissige Saiile ; 
Im Pentameter drauf fallt sie melodisch herab. 

Note referred to in p. 223. 
The fourth and last stanzas of " Separation '' are adapted 
from the twelfth and last of Cotton's " Chlorinda." 
"O my Chlorinda! could'st thou see 
Into the bottom of my heart, 
There's such a Mine of Love for thee 
The Treasure would supply desert. 

"Meanwhile my Exit now draws nigh, 
When, sweet Chlorinda, thou shalt see 
That I have heart enough to die 
Not half enough to part with thee." 

The fifth stanza is the eleventh of Cotton's poem. 

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